


Of Storm and Tapestry

by FantasyBard



Series: Sand and Storm, Destiny and Choice [1]
Category: Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Adventure, Backstory, Djinni & Genies, F/M, Fantasy, Gods, Intrigue, Magic, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyBard/pseuds/FantasyBard
Summary: Samira has always been told to stay in the shadows. Born with magic in a world where such gifts are considered a curse, she struggles every day to conform to what is expected. However, she has never been able to completely shake the belief that her abilities are meant for something more.Jafar had everything against him: foreigner, Magic Born, a broken memory and spirit. Yet, he also possessed a dogged determination to rise, no matter what the cost. He will no longer be a pawn. He will be second to no one.As Jafar and Samira navigate the difficult balancing act of politics, power, and magic, it will become clear that there is a great deal more at stake than just what they want. Ancient powers long thought dead are awakening. And the choices of the Vizier and the Princess will place them both at the center of conflict and change.
Relationships: Aladdin/Jasmine (Disney), Dalia/Genie (Disney), Jafar (Disney)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Sand and Storm, Destiny and Choice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565998
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. A Mariner’s Tale

**Author's Note:**

> A Mariner begins to tell a story to his children, as a reminder that it's not what's on the outside, but what's on the inside that counts. And so starts a tale of danger, magic and adventure, under Arabian days and nights.

A Mariner’s Tale:

The crystalline blue waters of the Verdant Sea sparkled under the height of the noon day sun. The waters were dotted with ships and boats of various sizes, but there was one in particular which seemed to stand out. It was a great ship, made with multiple sails swelling majestically with the incoming breezes. Several flags fluttered from the tops of the masts. From stem to stern, the precision of the workmanship and the gracefulness of the lines were meticulous. This craft had clearly been designed not just as a functional ship, but also as a perfect work of art. 

In stark contrast, sailing in the literal shadow of this ship, bobbed a much smaller, humbler vessel. Indeed, if viewed from the right angle, the larger ship was so immense that one wouldn’t have been able to see the merchant vessel trailing in its wake. It was made from simple, though sturdy materials. There was only a single large sail above the main deck, implying that it lacked the speed and maneuverability of the larger vessel. Unlike the sleek, but understated adornments of the greater ship, the smaller vessel was relatively unadorned, save perhaps for the personal touches here and there which lent a certain character to the ship despite it's smaller, less impressive appearance. 

The crew of such a boat was understandably much smaller than what was needed on the other. Perhaps the most unexpected passengers on the deck were two children, aged somewhere between eight and ten. The older, Omar, felt the shadow of the great ship passing behind them. Pulling his sister by the arm, he pointed to the ship excitedly. “Look.”

His sister, Lian, followed her brother’s gaze, and two of them rushed across the deck to gawk at the passing ship. “Their ship is so big.” She said, looking up in awe at the sight before them, and the slight wistfulness in her tone implied that she might have been comparing it a bit unfavorably to their own mode of sea going transportation.

“I wish ours’ was that fancy.” said Omar, sharing a rare moment of agreement with his younger sister, who he usually tended to take the opposite stance of whatever she thought, purely on principle. 

“I’d be so happy if ours’ was that fancy. What do you think, Viar?”

There was a chorus of chattering squeaks from one of Lian’s inner pockets, and a dark brown weasel poked it’s small head out from her vest. Observing the larger ship, the familiar conveyed that she couldn’t see the difference between that vessel and the one which they were currently on, so long as they stayed out of the water. 

“She agrees with me,” said Lian, triumphantly, conveniently choosing to ignore Viar's real opinion on the subject. 

Omar was more than a little skeptical that Lian was in such close harmony with her familiar as she always liked to point out. “You only learned how to summon her a few months ago. Didn't the spell say it would take at least a year to fully understand?”

“Maybe we’re just that well bonded,” said Lian, rather proudly, “Besides, my point is still the same. Can you imagine how great it would be to have a ship like that, because then-”

“Why is that?” A firm, yet gentle voice said behind them. Both siblings turned their heads to look at their father, a tall, broad shouldered man, dressed in the rough, serviceable clothing of a merchant sailor. However, despite this modest appearance, there seemed to be a special sort of charm that hummed around this Mariner, an undeniable charisma that set him apart from the others around him, even when all he was doing were the everyday tasks of running the ship.

He had heard every word that his children had said. It wasn’t that difficult as they were always within ear shot on a ship this size (that was either a benefit or a trial depending on who one asked in this exchange). He certainly wasn't angry; he had never been in the habit of chastising his children for simply wanting something. On the other hand, he never passed up an opportunity to teach his children a lesson in the ways of life. This presented an ideal opportunity. "Because it looks better? This boat has seen us through many a storm. It might not look like much, but it has something theirs’ never will.”

“What?” said Omar, sarcastically, “Wood rot and rats?”

Viar had climbed up onto her Lian's shoulder, and upon hearing this, let out an angry squeak. Lian patter her soothingly. “Don’t worry, Viar, we know there aren’t any rats on the ship since you came along. You’ve scared them all away.”

Their mother had emerged from the ship’s cabin, hanging the freshly washed laundry on the makeshift lines which stretched from the main mast to the railings of the upper deck. Hearing the tail end of this conversation, she looked over at her husband with an indulgent smile. “Are the children learning something, dear?” 

“It is unclear,” said her husband, responding with a smile that he only ever seemed to have whenever he looked at his wife. Quite secretly, Lian or Omar admitted that it was one of their father’s favorite smiles, second only to the ones he reserved exclusively for them. 

As for the Mariner himself, he clapped his hands and gestured towards the cushions in the middle of the deck. “Come sit, children.” 

As one, Lian and Omar’s eyes instantly brightened with excitement. They knew what was coming: their father was about to tell them a story. Their admiration of the greater ship forgotten, they scrambled to sit down, eagerly waiting for him to begin. Their father always had the very best stories, and he was by far the most gifted storyteller that either of them had ever heard. This was not simply familial boasting; across all the lands they had visited, everyone who had heard their father’s masterful weaving of song and story had said the exact same thing. 

Of course, they knew that his stories often had some sort of lesson he was trying to impart, but somehow, being told such a lesson in the form of a story was far more enjoyable than being lectured. 

“I think it’s time I told you a little story, about two princesses, one who had magic and one who didn’t, a street thief with a heart of gold and a vizier with a dark secret.” 

Lian’s face turned slightly sour. “Do we have to hear a story about a vizier?”

“Why? What’s the matter with a vizier?”

“She’s afraid of Jafar.” said Omar.

“I am not.” Lian protested, “He’s just so serious. He never smiles. And the last time I saw him, he was threatening to turn me into a mouse, and feed me to Iago.”

“Okay, in the first place, Iago doesn’t eat mice. He’s a parrot, and they eat nuts and fruit. Secondly, you and Leilah were trying to sneak into his study, which wasn’t the smartest or the most polite idea either of you have ever had. And thirdly, he was the one who showed you the spell to summon Viar, so I highly doubt he meant it.” 

Lian stroked Viar’s fur and gave this some thought. “That’s true, I suppose. But he still doesn’t smile.”

Her father’s smile widened. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Then again, it’s not always what’s on the outside that counts, it’s about what’s on the inside, and that’s a lot harder to find. That’s a lesson that all of the players in this story would have to learn in some form or fashion. But, no matter how different they were on the outside, there was one thing that would eventually draw all of them together, changing their lives forever: a lamp.”

“What’s so special about a lamp?” Omar asked, curiously.

“Ah, this is no ordinary lamp. This is a magical lamp.” The Mariner, with a very familiar gleam in his eye. Lian and Omar could already feel themselves being pulled into the story, and the main narrative hadn’t even begun. 

However, it also felt like something was missing, a singularly important ingredient to any story their father told which always seemed the make it that much more magical.

“Maybe if you sing,” said Omar. 

“Yeah, it’s better when you sing.” Lian agreed. 

At this, their father grew somewhat sombre. He tapped his chest and cleared his throat, as though he had just developed a terrible cold in the last five seconds. “No, no singing. It’s been a long day.” 

He got to his feet and began to climb the stairway to the upper deck. Lian and Omar weren’t exactly heartbroken by the prospect of the story being done before it had even started. They had seen their father do this many times before, as if to heighten the performance. He always said that how one began a story was one of the most important things any bard should learn. It always served to leave your audience sitting right at their edge of their seats wondering what would happen next. 

Only a moment later, the Mariner turned back to his children, the same spark in his eye he had had before, and he indeed began to sing. The smooth, rich baritone was the oldest memory that either Of the two children had of their father, for he had sung them to sleep nearly every night of their lives. And no matter how many stories or songs he created for them, there never seemed to be an end to what he could conjure in their imaginations with only a few notes of an opening phrase.

Some storytellers could easily engage A few of the senses when they told a story. They might make their words so clear that it was easy to see it or describe a sound with clarity that it seemed to come to life in a hearer’s ears.

But it took a master bard to take the many ways in which humans experienced the world, and weave them together to create a scene that was as vivid and life like as any that the real world offered. When he mentioned the chaotic harmony of the many different tongues spoken all at the same time, they could hear it in the back of their minds, almost as if they were on the Docklands along the shoreline. The scent of spices, the feel of silk and the flash of its many bright colors immediately put them squarely in the center of one of the Merchants Districts. 

The Mariner continued singing, promises and warnings of danger, suspense and adventure in this story sending their minds into entirely different directions. Omar was immediately thought himself in twisting, dark alleys of the ancient Old Quarter. He had never been there himself, though this trip his uncle had promised that he would take him there, and maybe even show him a track or two about leaping between buildings and dodging the watchful eyes of the guards. Perhaps, Aladdin would even show him an old tower that had used to be his home on the streets. Such descriptions rather appealed to a boy of Omar’s age, when forbidden places seems to have an air or unending adventure and excitement 

Lian was swept beyond protective gates and high city walls, to the endless dunes of the Burnished Wastelands. Her ideas of adventure had little to do with any place that could be mapped in. It was lay beyond those edges which captivated her . The Wastelands were said to hold long buried and ancient ruins of great cities which had risen and fallen long before settlers had come to the shores of the Vibrant sea looking for a new home. Her aunt had discovered such a place; who was to say that she should be able to do the same? She was going to find every single one of those ruins, and discover every secret which they hid.

The children were not the only ones who had been captured by the Mariner’s tale. Those who were working around them on the boat seemed to pause in their activities for just a few seconds, hardly knowing how they could be so easily caught in a spell, yet never wanting the feeling to end.   
  
And for the Mariner himself, well, this was one story he knew very well indeed. Admittedly, the good part where he came in didn’t come till much later, but if his children were to fully understand what he wanted to convey, he would have to go back to the very beginning. Besides, once upon a time on an Arabian night was the very best way to start on any story.

So, once upon a time, on an Arabian night, there were two princesses, a street thief and a vizier...


	2. Princess of Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some world building for the world of Agrabah in this chapter. I hope that everyone enjoys it.

Princess of Shadow:

The year of Agrabah was punctuated by festivals and observances of every conceivable character and purpose. From the Celebration of the Founding, marking the time nearly a thousand years before when the first settlers of Agrabah had been guided by Valara’s light to the shores of the Vibrant Sea, to the Day of Remembrance, when the souls of departed ancestors were honored, such holidays were a source of pride to every Agrabah citizen. In effect, these events told their story from the beginning days up till the present in the course of a year. 

Of all these holidays, one of the great favorites ws the Harvest Festival, when the outer courtyard of the palace was decorated with flowers and colored lanterns. The gates were opened and anyone could freely attend. 

The Harvest Festival was also quite special to the royal family as it was the holiday most closely related to the birth of their eldest daughter, Princess Samira. And this year, their youngest, Jasmine, was particularly excited because she was going to be able to stay up for the entire festival, instead of being shuffled off to bed, right as the celebrations were truly getting good. 

There was no denying that the two royal sisters were incredibly close. Though Samira was herself seven years older than Jasmine, it was rare to see one without the other, and it was no different tonight as they ran amidst the guests in the outer courtyard. They paid little mind to the respectful bows or the words of greeting that followed them almost a moment too late. There was a time and a place for such formalities. The night of the Harvest Festival was not one of them. 

Despite the happy accident of birth which had made them the daughters of the Sultan Hamed and his wife, Tamara, both Jasmine and Samira had very distinct appearances. 

Samira was fourteen, with the wavy, raven hair of her mother and sister, She was overly tall even for her age, lithe and dextrous. Her eyes were quite striking, shifting colors of gold and amber which her mother often said was her best trait. 

Jasmine was seven years old, and though she was generally described as a good looking little girl, she was still far too young to be called “radiant” or “striking”. Her eyes were much darker than Samira’s, and though she had started to grow, the chances were already good that she would somewhat shorter than Samira. What was perhaps most noticeable about Jasmine even at this young age was her smile, which always warm and bright. 

Even without the advantage of distinct appearances, it would have been easy for anyone to tell them apart. Jasmine’s clothing was a great deal richer in color and texture, the minute jewels sewn into the fabric shimmering in the torchlight. Samira’s ensemble was just as well made, but there was no adornment or decoration. The colors were muted browns and blacks. She seemed underdressed in comparison with her sister. Indeed, though Samira was running in front of Jasmine, she appeared little more than a shadow in the light of a brighter star. 

They were both beloved daughters, they loved each other as sisters, they were both princesses. Yet their destinies could not have been more different. 

Jasmine was the one who would one day carry on Agrabah’s royal legacy. She was going to marry a prince and keep the traditions of her people alive. This despite normal expectations that, as first born, Samira should have followed that path. But Samira has no real future. She would never hold any position of authority. She would never marry and have children. The laws of the kingdom forbade any such thing to a Magic Born such as Samira. In fact, in the minds of more than a few people, it would have been better if the eldest princess had never been born. 

Such things were quite distant from the mind of the two girls at this moment, however. The festival was to much fun to waste time on such gloomy thoughts. 

The evening continued on, and eventually they found their way to the tables laden with the fruits and food of the season. If they took a few more sweets than was normally allowed, none of the servants thought fit to scold them. They climbed the stairs up to one of the nearby rampants, which allowed them a vantage point of the entire courtyard. Lively music filled the air, and the courtyard was filled with couples dancing and whirling to the ever changing beat. 

“That one.” said Jasmine, pointing a couple on the opposite side of the courtyard, “I think they’re the most beautiful.”

Samira looked over and laughed. “Jasmine, that’s mother and father.”

“Well, of course.” saif Jasmine, “Who else would be the most beautiful here tonight?”

“That goes without saying, Jasmine. But you should at least try to give other people a chance.” Glancing around the courtyard in what she assumed to be a casual manner, she pointed to another couple. “Like them, I think they look the best.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying that because Tarik is the one dancing.”

Samira blushes and she immediately looked away. “Don’t be silly, it has nothing to do with that.”

“You should be the one dancing with him.” said Jasmine, looking defiant. “I know he likes you as much you like him.”

“You also know the rules.” said Samira, patiently, though there could be no mistaking the slight longing in her eyes as her gaze drifted back to Tarik. “I can’t dance with anyone at parties like this. It’s just not proper. Heaven forbid that I should catch the eye of another person, especially the son of the High Priestess of Shaddall.” 

“It’s a stupid rule.” Jasmine grumbled. 

“I can’t say I disagree.” said Samira, “But there’s not much either of us can do about it.”

“I know, but it’s still unfair.”

Samira didn’t like seeing her sister upset, especially when it was for her sake. It was hard enough for her to put a brave face on the restrictions she was forced to contend with every single day. She didn’t want Jasmine to miss out on anything because of her. 

Thinking quickly, she smiled and got to her feet. “I may not be able to dance with him, but there’s no rule that says I can’t dance with my favorite sister.”

Jasmine loved the idea. She jumped to her feet and clapped her hands. “Yes, let’s do that.” she said, eagerly, “I can’t dance with anyone yet, either.”

“And as it’s the Harvest, let’s see if we can make things just a little more special..” said Samira, with a wide grin. She reached out to her magic, a tangled skein of many different colored threads, each thread burning with a singularly vivid color. On instinct, she reached out and caught hold of four of the strands and began to weave them together into four distinct balls of glowing light. A deft touch of her hands caused them to change their colors every few seconds. 

Jasmine wasn’t necessarily aware of all the different steps which came with casting a spell. All she saw were a few disparate gestures that seemed to have no connection, and the next moment, the four globes popped into existence. Each globe gave off a distinct, warm glow, the colors changing from gold to silver, blue to orange, and every other color in between. They bobbed and danced to the music floating up from the courtyard, 

Jasmine gasped, in wonder and amazement. “Samira, when did you learn to do this?”

Samira laughed. “A few days ago. It’ll be useful for all the times we want to stay up late and read under the covers without getting caught. But, for now, I think they’ll do for a little bit of atmosphere.”

Jasmine also laughed happily, and began to dance around the walkway of the rampant which they were standing on, her sister following and mirroring her movements, the globes following them. It was a perfect moment. But, it would not last. 

Samira was directing the globes to whirl around Jasmine, who was squealing with uninhibited glee. Neither of them saw the looming figure coming their way until it was too late. The sharp voice cracked across their ears like the sound of a whip. “Princess Samira, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Samira squealed in surprise, the cold shadow of the priestess sweeping over her, dimming the brightness of the her flaming aura. The globes vanished, and she whirled around to Zaresh, the High Priestess of Shaddall, Lord of Shadows, and a woman who had an avowed loathing of Magic Born, especially Samira. 

No one would have called Zaresh beautiful. But, she was tall and statuesque, and carried herself with absolute confidence and conviction. She wore robes of purple and black, with several patterns sewn into the fabric marking her as a leader within Agrabah’s religious sects. Shaddall, the darker, brother moon of Valara was the protector of the dead, and as his representative, Zaresh presided over funerals and prayed for the safe passage of souls into the afterlife. She controlled the special garrisons who patrolled the crypts and graveyards scattered across the outskirts of Agrabah, guarding against the threat of an undead invasion. 

She performed all these duties with a zealous fervor, and there was not a person in Agrabah who could have said that she had ever put a step wrong in performing whatever duty she was given. But, with such faith had come an unfortunate flaw: pride. Zaresh sometimes seemed to think she was the only one standing between Agrabah and the repetition of past mistakes. As such, she hated Samira with as much passion as she respected the Sultan. 

Now, her sharp, angular face was drawn into a glare of absolute disapproval and outrage, which was focused entirely on Samira. Jasmine also froze upon catching sight of Zaresh, and she tried to stammer an apology or excuse that would make her go away and leave them in peace. “Lady Zaresh, Samira and I were just-”

“Hush, Princess Jasmine. This has nothing to do with you.” snapped Zaresh, who had no interest in putting any blame upon the one princess who was not a freak of nature. “Princess Samira, you are coming with me. We will see what your father has to say about this. Princess Jasmine, return to your minders. You shouldn’t even be alone with Samira. You could get hurt.”

“No, I’m going with my sister,” said Jasmine, stubbornly. 

The very last thing Samira wanted was for Jasmine to become dragged into a crossfire between herself and Zaresh. Zaresh, however, seemed anxious to bring this matter to the attention of her father, and arguing with a seven year old would only be a waste of precious time. “Very well, if that is what you wish. Come with me, Princess Samira, and don’t try any tricks to get away.”

As though Samira had ever tried that once in the several dozen times they had played through this farce. Zaresh always conveniently forgot that part. She took her sister by the hand, and followed the priestess back through the crowded courtyard. It was impossible for anyone to miss the sight of Zaresh escorting the Magic Born princess away from the celebration. She felt the heat of shame and embarrassment growing in the pit of her stomach. 

She knew what they were thinking without even eavesdropping into their thoughts: what had the princess done now that she needed to be herded by Zaresh? What terrible trespass had she committed on the night of such a high festival? What sort of dishonor would the Sultan quietly hush up this time?

Zaresh led them to an ante-chamber, informing one of the guards that she wished to speak to the Sultan and his wife on a serious infraction which Samira had committed. She didn’t have to wait long for Hamed and Tamara to appear. “Samira, Jasmine, what’s going on here?” Hamed asked. 

Samira opened her mouth to speak, but Zaresh was quicker. “I shall tell you the problem, Sultan. I caught Princess Samira using magic within the boundaries of the palace, outside of her regular training time and on a holiday, no less.”

“I was only dancing with Jasmine.” Samira protested, “I was perfectly in control the entire time. I only conjured four globes of light.” Wanting to show her side of the story, she conjured the same spell, the glowing balls of light appearing over her head. “See? They weren’t even real.”

“Is that what all this fuss is about?” Hamed asked, “It hardly seems worth your concern, Priestess.”

“Samira and Jasmine should be able to celebrate the Harvest Festival in any way they wish.” said Tamara, her golden eyes sharp and angry. 

“Your majesty, haven’t you seen the crowds in the courtyard this evening? The princess’ magic is growing ever more unpredictable. I can barely contain it to manageable levels as it is. If she had lost control with so many people present, it would have been a disaster.”

“You have been dedicating a great deal of time to teaching her, Lady Priestess.” said Hamed, “She trains nearly every day, and you keep a close eye on her progress.”

“My Sultan, with all due respect, that isn’t the point.” hissed Zaresh, “Time and again, Samira has disrespected the laws and traditions of Agrabah. She is strictly forbidden from using her magic for frivolous ends, yet she continually uses it to make the most mundane chores easier for her.“

Hamed glanced over at Samira with slightly raised eyebrows. “Samira, my dear, is this true?”

“No, no, of course, it’s not.” said Samira, “Ask Jasmine, ask any of the servants. I don’t use magic to clean my chambers, or make others do my bidding. Yet, Zaresh would tell everyone that I’m a lazy slob who only cares about pursuing my own ends.”

Zaresh sneered “I am not teaching you party tricks and favors, Princess. I am trying to teach you control and discipline, so that you will remember your place.”

Samira felt the sting of hot tears, and she looked down, unwilling to give Zaresh the satisfaction of seeing just how deeply her words hurt. Her magic had started the evening flashing brightly, the colors dancing with excitement that had quickly infected her with its exuberance. Now, every single strand was tangling into a tight ball, increasing her anxiety and making it impossible for her to focus on creating any magic. It was in such moments that she wondered if the reverse of Zaresh’s fears would ultimately come true: not that she would grow to powerful, but that she would one day forget the very basics of magic.

Tamara was one of the few who even understood what this felt like. Seeing the effect that Zaresh’s words were having upon her, she immediately stepped forward and placed herself in-between her daughter and the priestess. “The laws of this land have already robbed Samira of any chance of a normal life. Must you also rob her of her creativity and spirit?”

Zaresh smiled thinly at Tamara. “I am sometimes amazed, Sultana, that so many years in this country hasn’t made you wiser to our customs and their importance. Samira is already allowed too much privilege. Her magic is utterly unnatural. None of the Chosen can identify its source, not even those of us who are most studied in it.”

Zaresh was right, in theory: even Samira knew her powers were strange. Magic was tightly regulated in Agrabah. Only the Chosen, those who were adherents to the different religious orders, had the freedom to practice magic openly. However, even this was a process, with checks and balances in place so that no group became too powerful. Chosen channeled their power through amulets believed to be infused with the special grace of their deity. Those who were approved to pursue magic were permitted to study only a few disciplines. 

Magic Born, however, were an entirely different manner. Magic flowed in their veins from the very moment of their birth, manifesting in ways that were neither predictable nor easily controlled. It was this very uncertainty that made them so feared in Agrabah. 

The laws had once been far harsher than they were now. Families had been torn apart, children forced into a virtual sentence of banishment to academies far beyond Agrabah’s borders. Now, such drastic measures were not enforced. However, using magic openly was generally frowned upon. Those who had such abilities learned very quickly to keep them quietly hidden away. 

Samira was the first Magic Born to appear in the royal family in over one hundred and fifty years. Her magic had been strong from the start. Already, she had developed a strange connection with the animals who lived in the palace, sometimes communicating with them more easily than most people. Sometimes, unconsciously, she could move the dust which inevitably gathered in a desert environment in small whirlwinds or levitate the stones which lay in the palace gardens. 

Quite recently, a more, unsettling gift had started to manifest: Samira was beginning to be aware of the memories which flowed from the people that she encountered on a daily basis. It was not like reading actual thoughts, nor were the memories minute recitals of a person’s daily life. They were the memories which served to define who someone was, and had influenced them to where they were now. 

It wasn’t a gift Samira enjoyed having. It wasn’t easy seeing the darkest secrets a person carried in their pasts. But, it was also one she was determined Zaresh would never learn she had. And keeping that secret was something else which continually weighed her down.

Zaresh did not know any of these confused reflections going on in Samira’s head, which was probably for the best. She decided she had said all she could to Samira, and was now turning her attention to Hamed. “Would you have another War of Succession? Sorcerers of royal blood tore this country apart, killing untold numbers of innocents, all so they could grow more powerful. It was your own ancestor who set the decrees in place regarding Magic Born so that such a tragedy would never occur again.”

“I do not need to be reminded of the history of my own family, Lady Priestess.” snapped Hamed, “The war ended five hundred years ago, and times have changed. Samira is my daughter, and she is not like that.”

“If we allow even one Magic Born to forget their place, they will overrun us all.” said Zaresh. 

“When have I ever done anything to harm my family?” Samira angrily demanded, “I don’t want to rule, I don't want to take away my sister’s future. I only want to protect her.”

“You don’t know what you’re capable of, Princess Samira.” said Zaresh, contemptuously, “It does not matter what your intentions are. You were tainted the moment you were born, and everything you do carries with it the curse of your magic. If you’re not careful, one day you will pay the ultimate price.” 

The utter hatred which colored the tone of her every word was like a slap in the face for Samira. She felt as though Zaresh was tearing her down inch by inch, until there was nothing left of her but a tiny, insignificant shadow that the priestess would all to easily be able to crush beneath her. 

“That is enough, Lady Zaresh.” said Hamed, his expression cold with disapproval at what she had just said. “I know you mean well, but I trust my child. Perhaps it’s time that you did the same.” He glanced over at Samira. “As for the matter of using magic in the palace, I thank you for bringing it to my attention, and I shall deal with it in the way that I feel is best.”

Zaresh clearly had more to say. Samira could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, the grey eyes growing hard as steel. Her lips pursed into a thin line, as though trying to force herself from blurting all the viterol she wished she could say to the princess. It was only her respect for the Sultan himself that was restraining her, and even that defense was very thin indeed. 

She gave a stiff bow and said, “Of course, my lord, whatever you say.”

Zaresh turned, and swept majestically from the room. However, Samira felt absolutely no relief at her departure. She knew there was no way that Zaresh would forget this. She would remember it, horde the anger and disdain as she did with everything that Samira tried to do. 

She was the only one who seemed to feel this way. As soon as Zaresh left the room, Jasmine smiled and hugged her sister, as though everything was now set right. “See, Samira? Baba understands. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Hamed smiled for a brief moment at Jasmine, before he turned a slightly more serious expression on Samira. “Lady Zaresh does have a point, my dear. You need to be very careful about how you choose to display your gifts. You never need to worry about we will think of you, but paying extra attention during times such as these will spare you a great deal of trouble in the future.”

Samira was still so shaken by Zaresh’s words that all she could do was numbly nodded her assent at what he father was saying. The words of the High Priestess buzzed through her mind; she couldn’t forget them no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t let her sister see that, however, or her mother and father. No, she needed to pretend that everything was all right, because they were the only ones who she could depend upon, and she didn’t want them to think that she was ungrateful. 

So, as she had done many times before, she buried all of the fear and insecurity in the back of her mind, and forced a proper smile onto her face. “Of course, baba.”

“Come on, Samira. Let’s go. We don’t want to miss the fireworks.” Jasmine grabbed Samira by the hand, and began to race out of the room, perhaps not entirely aware that she was needing to tug her sister a little bit harder than usual in order to keep up with her.

* * *

Later that night, after the Festival was over, and the princesses were in their respective rooms, Tamara came, as she did every night, to say good night to her girls. Jasmine was almost too excited to sleep. The youngest princess had had a wonderful time, and she could hardly wait for the next one. 

The only thing which had truly bothered her was Samira. She hadn’t laughed or smiled once after Zaresh had tried to humiliate her. Once they had gotten back to their rooms, Jasmine had been eager to go over every detail of the evening with her, but Samira hadn’t wanted to do that. She had gone straight to her room, complaining of a headache. Tamara had hugged Jasmine tightly, and told her that Samira would be back to her old self in the morning. 

Leaving Jasmine’s room, she crossed the hallway, pausing for a moment at her door, preparing herself for what she knew she would be on the other side. She reached out and opened the door quietly, slipping inside without a word. 

Samira was curled into a fetal position on her bed, her face hidden in her hands, and the soft sounds of her sobbing reaching Tamara’s ears, as they had so many times before. Despite all of Samira’s efforts to hide, Tamara was well aware of how well her daughter had learned to hide her tears. She buried the pain deep in a hollow place until she was finally alone, and would cry until she had no more tears to shed.

Tamara did as she had always done before. She sat beside her and held her close, and Samira melted into her mother’s arms, continuing to cry as Tamara gently stroked her hair. 

“It’s not fair, mama.” Samira finally said, “I didn’t ask to be Magic Born, but everyone acts like I’m just waiting to destroy everything I touch. Why do people think that?”

“I don’t know.” Tamara answered, “When people don’t understand something or someone, they can be unthinking and cruel. I don’t know why that is, Samira, nobody does. And, I fear it’s something that will never stop happening.”

Her mother never gave the easy kind of comfort. She never said that everything would be alright or that terrible things would never happen again. She always told her the truth, even when it wasn’t the easiest thing to hear. “I can’t stop using my magic, mama. I don’t want to. It’s as much a part of me as breathing or eating.”

“And you should never let anyone keep you from doing so.” Tamara said, “The magic you have been granted is a privilege and a gift. It’s beautiful because it comes from the world around you. I have always known that you were meant to use that magic for something wonderful, and the more that people like Zaresh say it is dangerous, the more I am convinced of it.”

Samira’s spirit lightened a little with these words of encouragement. Her mother was Magic Born, just like her. But she was from Shirabad, where such things were quite normal in that country. Besides that, she was the Sultana. A Sultana had more respect than a princess when it came to magic, however much sense that made. She was the only one who truly understood what Samira experienced whenever she looked at the world. 

“But, I never know what to say to Zaresh or any one else when they start to criticize me or whisper behind my back. There’s so much that I want to tell them, but I know that nothing I say or do will ever convince them.”

“Samira, look at me.” Tamara commanded softly. “You have never done anything which you need to apologize for. What you must do is to let people know this. When you begin to feel as though someone is trying to belittle you, you must look at them directly in the eyes as you are doing with me right now. Don’t look down, don’t look away. No matter what they say or do to you, hold your head high and never back down.”

“What will that do?”

“It will show them that you have strength and courage. It will show them that you are not ashamed of who you are and nothing they can do will make you think otherwise. If you learn to do this, the words to defend yourself will come, I promise. Even if they don’t stop thinking less of you, as long as you remember who you are, they will never break you. Do you understand?”

Samira nodded solemnly. “Yes, mama. I’ll do that from now on, I promise.”

Tamra smiled and hugged her close to her. “Oh, I love you, my darling girl. I am so proud of you.”

Samira hugged her mother close, and after a few minutes, the Sultana pulled away from her and kissed her on the forehead. “Now, you need to get some sleep, Samira. No point in letting someone like Zaresh rob you of that.”

Samira smiled, her tears starting to dry up, and snuggled under the covers. Her mother got up and headed for the door of her room. However, just before she left, Samira’s voice stopped her. “Mama, sometimes I think I have something wonderful to do with my magic too. How will I know when it’s here?” 

Tamara’s back was still turned, so Samira didn’t see the deeply troubled look that for just a moment clouded the gentle features of her face. Indeed, when she turned back around, there was nothing for Samira to see but reassurance. “Samira, when the time comes, you’ll know. I promise.”

Samira would sleep peacefully that night, her dreams were filled with images of flames of vibrant colors weaving in an endless dance, creating breathtaking beauty of which she was a part. But for Tamara, the evening was merely another step in the long and painful task of protecting her daughter. She had always known that Samira wasn’t meant for a normal life. She understood better than anyone in Agrabah the extent of Samira’s abilities, and just how much danger they placed her in. Her powers would only grow, and it was only a matter of time before others would come searching for her. 

Ironically, the greatest danger came not from people like Zaresh, or anyone within the borders of Agrabah. They were a daily challenge Samira would learn to rise above. 

No, the greatest danger would be those people who would swoop down to consume Samira, ensuring that her gifts never reached their fullest potential, or would be twisted to serve some darker purpose. And the first people to come looking would be from Shirabad. 

It would come, one day. But Tamara was ready. She would do anything, go to any lengths to protect Samira, even if it meant going against the people of her own country. She knew that one day, Samira would step out of the shadows, and burn brighter than anyone could have ever predicted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Jafar lovers. Everyone's favorite twisted Vizier is about to make his appearance. Thanks for reading and happy holidays. 
> 
> Next chapter: A thief and assassin sent by the Chimera Conclave to Agrabah on a top secret mission knew that there was a chance he would be caught. It was a risk that went with every mission. But, it was not death that awaited him this time: it was the agony of truth, and the promise of a second chance.


	3. Identities

Names:

He was drowning, the water whirling and crashing around him. Something inside of him had been holding back the current, damming it back behind high, immense walls of seemingly impregnable stone. Yet, if there is something to be said about water, it is an element which can wear down nearly any barrier given enough time. 

All his mind had needed was a final push to set the torrent loose. 

He hadn’t expected the Sultana to be so quick in casting the spell. All the rumors he had heard of her was that she was no longer actively pursuing magic since she had become the wife of Agrbah’s ruler. He had thought that she wouldn’t be skilled enough to detect him aboard the ship, let alone do anything to stop him. He had underestimated her. She had managed to learn the type of magic that thrust deep into the mind of memory of other beings, and she was skilled enough to complete spell before he had even known it was happening. 

The magic had clawed it’s way past his defenses, and had started to rip his psyche to pieces. 

The memories inside him had long been buried deeper than the sea, and were now surging to the surface. The tidal wave was so immense that he couldn’t escape from it no matter how hard he tried. The more he struggled, the quicker he found himself drowning. Sometimes, those who are being tossed about by waves under the water soon become so turned around that they are no longer able to discern up from down. At this moment, he no longer knew what had been deception and what had been the reality. 

He wanted to believe that Tamara had planted the false memories, making him question his loyalties. He wanted to believe it. It would be so much less painful than the endless, churning sea he was lost in. She had everything to gain by destroying him.

And yet, he was intimately acquainted with the nature of deception. He knew how to weave a web of lies. He had led dozens of people to ruin simply by feeding them honeyed words which even they must have known subconsciously were entirely untrue. Truth was often so much more painful than deception. 

At this moment, he couldn’t imagine a worse agony than he was experiencing. The false memories which had been planted on the surface of his mind seemed to stretch as far back as his childhood, stealing whatever he could to survive, relying on his magic and wits to keep himself alive. That much seemed true, but even there, he felt that there were blanks which should have been filled with… something, something more than the yawning abyss that threatened to envelop him. 

He couldn’t even remember his own name. The Conclave had given him many names over the years, names and identities which seemed the most fitting for the assignments they gave him to carry out. He had forgotten his name. What was worse was that he couldn’t remember the name of his own sister. 

Wait, sister? Yes, he had had a sister, once. She was dead, because of him. 

And of all the fragmented, hazy memories he couldn’t clearly make out, he remembered with perfect clarity what her face had looked like in those last terrible moments. He saw the life drain from her eyes, and the ever expanding pool of her blood shining in the moonlight. The twisted faces of people surrounding him with maniacal, taunting grins, their insults echoing in his mind, smothering him with shame and guilt.

_“You were not good enough after all.”_

_“You weren’t strong enough to save her or sacrifice her.”_

_“You are a disappointment, second best to what we had hoped.”_

Failure, second best, street rat. That’s all he had ever been, and all he ever would be. 

“Enough!” The sharp, commanding voice of Tamara suddenly broke through the other voices screaming at him, and he had the sudden sense of a hand wrapping around his shoulder, pulling him upwards through the whirling maelstrom, back up into reality. 

He felt himself falling roughly against the deck of the ship’s cargo hold. A torch burned somewhere close by, throwing long shadows amongst the barrels and crates of the room. In that light, he saw that there were only two other people in the hold besides himself. One was the stately, elegant figure of Tamara. The other was a woman named Qadira, ostensibly Tamara’s handmaiden, though reports from Agrabah whispered that she was just as much a bodyguard as a servant. 

Given the fact that she had been able to sneak up on him through the shadows of the hold and knock him senseless with a blow to the back of the head, made him inclined to believe the rumors. He now saw a dagger clutched in her hand to further confirm this. He also knew that it sealed his fate. 

He knew what was coming. No one would question the word of the queen if she said she had taken care of an unexpected stowaway in the cargo hold. Besides, he had no real desire to fight. He really didn’t care what Tamara did to him. He had nothing to live for. 

The seconds stretched out, each one he expected to be his last. Yet, the killing blow didn’t come, and silence continued to hang in the room around him, with nothing but the creaking of the hull and the faint rhythm of the waves to break the tension. Finally, he chanced a glance upwards to look at them. 

He noticed that Qadira was glaring at him with anger and suspicion. Her fingers kept flexing around the dagger in her hand, itching to surge forward and bury the point in her chest. She kept glancing at Tamara, expecting the command at any moment. 

It was the expression on Tamara’s face that surprised him. He had thought to see hard lines of accusation, her eyes narrowed with hatred. Yet, both were entirely absent. Her gaze was steady, golden eyes alight with understanding and compassion. He felt himself recoiling. He didn’t want her pity. 

The tension increased to the point where he could bear it no longer. “Why?” He finally asked, his voice rough with… what, exactly? Tears, self-loathing? He had no idea at this point. “Why?”

Tamara cocked her head, as though trying to understand why he had asked such an odd question. “You were a slave. I know that it might not feel like it now, but I am trying to help you.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Why go to all the trouble? You know what I’ve been sent here to do, don’t you?” There was just the slightest hint of hesitation on Tamara’s part, before she gave the slightest of nods. “Then, why? Why did you do this to me?” He demanded, anger spilling into his words, making them sound rougher and sharper than they had been before. “You should have killed me. You would have done me a far greater kindness.”

“Despite what you might think, I never meant to kill you.” 

She stepped forward, and Qadira tensed, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. “Tamara, don’t. He was going to kidnap your daughter. He could have killed any number of people in order to do so. He’s dangerous.”

“Yes, which is why I need him.” said Tamara, as she gently eased Qadira’s grip on her arm.

“How can you be sure you can trust him, after all of this?”

Tamara looked back at his prone form, and he felt her piercing gaze burning him through him as much as he had previously felt himself drowning. She was still testing him, he realized, and she would burn every last secret from him whether or not he wanted her to. She wasn’t going to do that for the start. She was going to give him every chance to trust her. 

“Qadira, my friend, trust me. I know what I’m doing.” 

Qadira still looked doubtful, even as she allowed Tamara to step forward towards him. Her wary glance made it quite clear that she would gut him if he even attempted to make a wrong move.

Tamara sat down in front of him, regarding him for a moment with that same piercing gaze he didn’t have the strength to try and avoid. She reached for an object at her waist, and he inwardly flinched, certain that she was going for a weapon. Instead, she held out a water skin to him, as though it should have been the most natural thing in the world for her to offer him assistance. 

“Drink.” He stared at her. Was she serious? He had learned nothing about Tamara during his research that suggested she was a particularly cruel creature. Why was she toying with him like this? When he seemed to hesitate, her eyes grew annoyed and she thrust the water skin at him with more emphasis. “Drink, that’s an order. I haven’t offered you a second chance merely for you to turn it down like a petulant child.”

For just a moment longer, he eyed her suspiciously. He began to get the distinct impression that if he didn’t take the water from her willingly, she would actually attack him and force the water down his throat. That would be undignified, and at the very least, he wanted to try and hang onto that. He took the water from her with some reluctance, and began to drink. Only as the water touched his tongue did he realize that he was parched with thirst. The human sense of survival spoke louder in that moment than the swirling storm of his guilty emotions and he greedily drank down the rest of the water. 

He coughed on the last bit of water, Tamara still sitting calmly across from him. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why haven’t you killed me? She’s right, you know.” He gestured towards Qadira. “I was sent by the Conclave to take the eldest princess. I was given permission to do whatever it took to make that happen. I wouldn’t even blame you for killing me.”

“Why would I want to do that? Killing you only delays the inevitable. Where you failed, only more will be sent. And I don’t fight my battles the same way your allies do.”

This didn’t do anything to make him feel at ease. “What do you want from me?” 

“Your help.” said Tamara, as though that should have been easy for him to do. 

He looked down at her hands, closed his eyes and tried to focus on the magic which, for as long as he could remember, had always burned through his body. Magic had been the only constant in his life, the one thing he knew he could always rely upon. Now, it felt broken, the storm he had always reached for to fuel his powers was somehow weakened. Whether it was from the shock of his true memories finally being unlocked or simply the fact that he had never been as strong as he had wanted to believe, one of the few things he had ever been able to call his own was now little better than useless. 

“You’re wasting your time.” He said, “I have nothing of value to offer.”

“That is where you’re wrong.”said Tamara, “You must have heard the whisperings amidst the corridors of the Conclave. You must know that they believe a war is coming.”

He had. The Masters were speaking of nothing else in hushed tones when they believed none of the other Acolytes were listening. The djinn were sending strange signs and warnings to their faithful followers. He had not inquired about what these signs might mean; such questions were not for those who had no need of deeper understanding. The one thing which he had known for certain was that the presence of magic in other lands was rising at an alarming rate, and the Conclave was starting to become nervous. 

The Chimera Conclave had always prided itself on the monopoly it placed on magical. Those born with magical abilities from all over the southern lands and beyond attended its Academy in order to hone their skills. All those with such talents were taught. And anyone who was especially gifted was indoctrinated to fight for the Conclave. 

For the better part of his life, he had been a willing soldier in a war that had never really ended. He had done whatever he had been told without thinking. Now, he could see that he had been used, nothing more than a pawn to be used and thrown away as soon as his usefulness was at an end. 

The Sultana eyed him closely, no discerning what was going through his mind. “Sooner or later, everyone must choose a side. Not everyone has the chance to make the choice for themselves, but you’ve been given an opportunity to do so.”

“Are you really giving me a choice?” He said, skeptically, “Why not simply command me to follow your every whim? You were easily able to lift the spell that was inhibiting my memories. Binding me to your will should be child’s play.”

“I have no use for a slave.” said Tamara, softly, “And yes, I am giving you a choice. I will keep your presence on this ship a secret from the captain, and the rest of the crew. You will come to no harm. When we get to Agrabah, you can simply vanish into the crowd on the docks, and make your way to a distant country where no one will ever find you. Despite what the Conclave would like to believe, there are places to hide from them.”

That sounded like a terrible option to him. There were not many constants between what the Conclave had turned him into and what he truly wanted to be. One of those traits was that he had never liked running. It had never been in his nature to back down from a challenge. It was one of the things which had kept him alive in a hostile, brutal world. “You speak of choices, yet I have only heard you mention one. What else could there be for me?”

“You could return to Shirabad. The Conclave wouldn’t kill you for failure, they value assets too well for that.”

He winced. Death would not be the punishment perhaps, but it might be preferable compared to some of the things he had witnessed, and even suffered himself. “Why give me freedom from their influence, only to advise that I go back?”

Tamara shrugged. “I am not advising you one way or the other. It is your choice now. But, I know how powerful the pull of the familiar can be. Even when such roots cause pain, there are some people who simply can’t live without it.”

He knew the bitter truth of that statement all too well. In the midst of his fragmented memories, he could remember slight moments when he had questioned his allegiance to the Conclave, especially when his desire for learning and power were repeatedly denied. He had obeyed every single order he had ever been given. He had completed every mission without a single mistake. Yet, he had never been given a chance to advance through the ranks. He needed to work harder, he had always been told, to have greater ambitions than just second best. 

Despite all that, he had kept returning to the Conclave, simply because he had never imagined where else he could go. He had been fed false promises nearly his entire life. The Conclave had wanted nothing more from him than blind obedience, and expected him to be content with that. 

“I won’t go back.” He said, looking up into the face of Sultana without hesitation for the first time since this stand-off had started. “It would be better for you to simply kill me here.”

A whisper of a smile appeared on Tamara’s face, and Jafar began to realize he must have given her the right answer. “You might have another option, albeit perhaps the most dangerous one of all. Come with me, to Agrabah.”

For a split second, Jafar was certain that he was hallucinating. He wasn’t the only one who seemed to think so, as Qadira looked over at Tamara in open mouthed astonishment. “You can’t possibly be serious? You would bring me back to Agrabah? What on earth for?”

“Does it matter?” Tamara asked, “I’m offering you protection, the chance to make something of yourself. There is an opportunity to go far if you know the right way to dance.”

He heard himself scoff. “I know how magic works in Agrabah. People fear magic and those like me who instinctively know how to use it. There isn’t even a proper school for instruction. It’s all regulated by the temples. What knowledge or opportunity could there possibly be for someone like me?

“Sometimes, the greatest knowledge isn’t commonly known and needs to be sought,” said Tamara, “And you strike me as a determined, enterprising young man. My guess is that you’ll do fine.”

He knew that it could not be that simple. There had to be something else that the Sultana wanted from him. Yet, against his better judgement, he actually found himself beginning to consider her offer. At this point, what could he possibly have to lose? He didn’t really want to die, for all his defiance. There had been three things in his life he had always wanted: magic and power, and the knowledge to pursue them both. The past ten years had only whetted his appetite for them. Maybe, Tamara was right and he would simply have to go about attaining them a different way. 

“Your Majesty, you can’t seriously be considering bringing this murderer into your service?” Qadira hissed, making no attempt to hide her suspicion, “He could turn on you and the rest of the royal family when you’re least expecting it.”

“In that case, I shall rely upon you to kill him.” For the first time, her voice carried a hint of warning. “It goes without saying that what I am expecting in return is loyalty. Pursue whatever desires you chose. But, if you cross my family in any way, you will die. Do I make myself clear?”

“Your blunt honestly speaks a great deal more eloquently than honeyed words.” He found himself saying sardonically. He had already made his choice. Allegiances could change as easily as any of the shifting sands. Allying with Tamara was truly the best option he had. “I accept your offer.”

“In that case, let me be the first to welcome to the service of the royal family of Agrabah. Make yourself indispensable and there isn’t a door that will not be opened to you” She paused, and then asked. “What is your name? And I don’t mean any of the names which the Shirabad Masters gave you. I want your real name.”

His real name. What he had been called before they took him and began to remold him in their own image? For a few panicked moments, he feared that they had stolen even that last shred of his identity from him, burying it in the midst of hazy and fragmented memories. He forced himself to look through each and every blurred scene, to hear the barest syllable of words he could remember. And finally, there was a name he had not heard himself called in years, yet somehow felt truer than anything he had taken in a long time. 

“Jafar.” He said, “My name is Jafar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave a review with what you liked, or what I can improve. I'm always open to some constructive criticism.
> 
> Next chapter: the passing years have only increased the power of the eldest princess of Agrabah. Samira struggles to find her place in increasingly hostile surroundings, while encountering the ominous and silent figure of Jafar. Though neither of them can fully Understand the great implications of their introduction, their stories are only just beginning.


	4. The Mariner's Tale, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mariner continues to weave the tale for his children. Though perhaps not entirely aware of just how close this story relates to their own lives, they are hanging on his every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I seem to be alive still. I got some major writer's block while trying to work through this section, but inspiration has finally struck.
> 
> As some Disney fans of the original animated classic might know, the idea of bringing in the Peddler (of course, the Genie in one of his many guises) again at the end of the movie to sort of tie it altogether never really came about. Judging by the novelization of the movie, I think there might have been a similar thought present for the live action version. Therefore, I have decided to experiment with the Mariner as a framing device. I don't know if it will work, but I thought it was worth a try. 
> 
> For right now, please enjoy the next two chapters Of Storm and Tapestry.

The Mariner’s Tale, II:

Whenever the Mariner weaved his tales, time became meaningless. Thus, when Lian and Omar once more became aware of their surroundings, they were surprised to see that the sun was starting it’s descent to the western horizon. They had already passed Agrabah on their way to trading ports further down the coast, before returning to the capital city in a few days' time. 

Their mother came up to them, and clapped her hands to get her children’s attention. “All right, it’s time to get washed up for dinner.”

Both Lian and Omar began to voice protests, saying that the story was just starting to get good. “Listen to your mother, children.” said the Mariner, as he got to his feet, “I’ll tell you the rest as we eat. It’s going to take us a few days to tell this entire story, so we might as well take some breaks.”

Enlivened by this promise, the two immediately got to their feet, and hurried to do their mother’s bidding as quickly as they possibly could, as if by wasting a single moment, it would somehow make their father completely forget the story. As they went into the main cabin, she turned to her husband with a raised eyebrow. “I could only hear every other word, but I could swear some parts of this story are starting to sound a little familiar.”

The Mariner gave her a dazzlingly charming smile. “Well, I can’t help it if the really good parts come so much later in the story. I have to set the stage, after all.”

“Are you referring to the parts of the story where you play a significant part?”

“Actually, I was thinking of the parts where you start to make a major appearance.”

“Oh, good answer.” She sighed and shook her head. “Don’t think they’ll be able to put the pieces together eventually? You said yourself that we have the brightest children under the stars.”

“Of course, we do. Which is why I’m just putting a few shadow tones over a few names and places. They’re not hearing anything familiar, just the important parts. They need to know the true story about what happened. Now’s as good a time as any.”

The Mariner’s eager enthusiasm was infectious. Even after nearly a decade of marriage, it was still hard for her to completely resist it. “It’s a long story, though. It takes the companies of players nearly a week to encompass the full story. Do you think you’ll be able to finish it before we arrive at Agrabah?”

“Well, if I’m not done, we can always include the others. The more, the merrier.”

A few minutes later, the little family was gathered on the upper deck, preparing to eat as the sun went down. “Now, where were we?” said the Mariner.

The two children eagerly stumbled over themselves to give a rough idea of what the story had been so far, and their father laughed. “Good, I’m glad you’ve been paying attention. Now, we need to get back to our two sisters. It’s been several years since we last saw them on the night of that Harvest Festival. And, to put it mildly, when the Dark Stranger the Sultana rescued arrives in the city, life for both of them, and particularly for the Eldest, will never be quite the same again.”

So, he began to tell the tale again. Like any good storyteller, he needed to set the scene properly. The Temple Promenade, the most sacred place in all of Agrabah. Within the precincts of the Promenade, were located the temples to the city’s most prominent divine protectors and guides. Compared to the bustling confusion of Agrabah’s streets, the Promenade was a haven of ordered serenity. 

There were more gods beyond the four which had a place in the promenade. Various smaller shrines and temples dotted the districts across the city. These gods could probably have claimed many followers within Agrabah and beyond. However, these four were considered to be the ones who had shaped the history of the kingdom and its people.

The Spire of Valara was the largest and grandest of the temples. Built entirely of pearlescent white stone that always seemed to glow with reflection of the Silver Guardian’s light, even at the height of the day. It’s high, arching spire rose to the heavens, visible from nearly everywhere in the city. Valara was the patron of Agrabah, having guided the first settlers over the deserts and seas to the rich port, founding a dynasty that would last 1,000 years. 

Shaddall’s Citadel, right beside the Spire, was an altogether different temple. It’s dark, purple stone was shot through with lattice lines of silver and black. It was less ornate in style than the Spire, but for good reason. The Citadel was the final resting place for Agrabah’s faithful dead, where the rites to ensure peaceful rest and passage of the soul were performed. Shaddall was the Keeper of Death, walking across the night sky in Valara’s light. Yet, all mortals would feel his shadow at some point. Without his guidance, many would try to run from such an event, or even more dangerous, run to it. 

The other two temples within the Promenade were dedicated to Ehlir and Ravdun. Ehlir was the one who inspired the beauty of song and story. It’s vast library was second to none in the city, and it was said those who sought true knowledge within the walls of the temple, would invariably find what they were looking for if they were willing to persist. On the other hand, Ravdun directed trade and commerce. Being a port city that thrived on trade, both by sea and land, his intervention was regularly sought by sailors and Caravan travelers alike. 

Most people you met on the streets in Agrabah claimed loyalty to one of these four deities. Most, except the Eldest princess. As she grew older, she felt more and more as though she really didn’t belong. There were ways she was expected to behave, being Magic Born, that if she deviated from in even the slightest manner, she would be considered even more dangerous and unnatural.

She always remembered her mother’s words to all those years ago, that she was meant for something more. But however much she might have believed this, as the years passed, she still didn’t know what that might be. It was becoming ever more frustrating for her when it seemed as though there was no one to help her find it. 

However, as the Mariner brought his children back to her, she was, in truth, right on the cusp of truly beginning her journey. 


	5. Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samira is searching for something: belonging, purpose, control of her own destiny. Of course, those things are never things are never easily found, nor are they found in the places which she might expect. She will have to trust in something she can't entirely understand in order to find what she is meant to do.

Searching:

It wasn’t easy being the only son of the most powerful priestess in Agrabah. Tariq had learned that from an early age. A great deal would have been expected of him normally, yet Zaresh had had almost unnaturally high expectations of him from the start. He had long ago come to realize that he would probably never meet them. 

It wasn’t uncommon for members of the religious class to hand down positions for their children. Many believed that their patrons looked with favor upon certain bloodlines. Tariq was in the process of being trained for a position in the Crypt Guard, the soldiers who patrolled the passageways beneath Agrabah and other cities within the kingdom. They were responsible for making sure that no rampant corpses or troops of mutated animals emerged from the lower levels to menace the populace of those cities. 

That he could handle. He was an able fighter, and the ceremony of the Chosen in a few months would reveal if he would be counted amongst those taught to use the magic of Shaddall. But, he felt less than equal to being exactly what his mother insisted he should be. 

It didn’t help that he was in love with the very person his mother hated most. 

He didn’t know when he had fallen in love with her. But, for the last six months, he had known that he had more than a passing respect for Samira, and it had made him even more awkward and tongue-tied whenever he encountered her. 

Today, it happened to be a chance encounter in the library of Ehlir. He came upon her quite by chance, at a small table wedged into the back of one of the study rooms. Samira had at least five books spread out in front of her, engrossed in taking notes from them. However, it was a common understanding that it was nearly impossible to catch Samira by surprise. She had an uncanny ability to sense the approach of anyone, particularly if it was someone she knew quite well. 

She turned around and said, with a bright smile, “Tariq, what an unexpected surprise. It’s so good to see you.”

“Oh, yes.” said Tariq, having the presence of mind to bow respectfully. “Princess, what brings you here to the library of Ehlir?”

Samira shook her head, and returned to her research. “I’m just taking advantage of Jasmine and father’s presence at the Spire to do a little research of my own.”

She probably expected him to comment on the fact that she wasn’t attending the service of Agrabah’s chief protector with the rest of her family. In truth, she hadn’t been attending for several months. It was only one of many things which was regularly spoken of with disapproval by those who worked in the temples, to say nothing of what his mother thought of it. 

However, since this was a rare moment when both of them were alone, he didn’t want to bring up such a painfully sore subject. Instead, he chose what he hoped would be a much safer topic. “What are you researching?” 

He glanced at the books, hoping that he might be able to get a general idea, but unfortunately three of them seemed to be obscure, dense texts detailing the history of magic and the other was an exploration into mythical beasts and ancient heroes. The only one which seemed remotely familiar was a collection of fairy tales that were familiar to most children in Agrabah. It was opened to a drawing of a bird on fire, ascending into the air from a pile of ashes. 

The phoenix was a simple and popular image. It was used in various stories and works of art throughout Agrabah’s history. Yet, it was this image that seemed to be the starting point of her research. 

“I’m mainly looking for anything I can find about magic that doesn’t have a divine origin.” said Samira, “I haven’t had much success finding a history of magic that resembles mine. At this point, I’m being forced to expand my horizons.”

“That seems wise.” said Tariq, who had heard many times the frustration which Samira struggled with when it came to understanding the magical gifts she had been granted. “There hasn’t been a Magic Born in the royal family for many years. I’m sure it’s frustrating trying to make sense of it without guidance.”

He already knew that Samira was on her own when it came to learning how to actually handle her powers. Most of what she had learned had come instinctually, and even that was rarely consistent. The only people who could train others in magic were the Chosen of the temples, and none of them seemed to have any interest in taking the time to teach Samira anything. Many of them wanted nothing to do with them altogether. It pained him to include his own mother on that list.

Of course, stating such things wouldn’t necessarily be of any help to Samira. She was probably more than aware of it. “It’s more difficult than I expected it to be. I didn’t realize how many records had been destroyed during the Succession Wars. Most of what was written in the last five centuries has been from the point of view of the Chosen. Nothing that can really help me to figure out what kind of power I have.”

“What exactly are you trying to find?” Tariq asked. 

“Right now, I’d be happy to find any report of an aura that even resembles mine.” huffed Samira in frustration.

Tariq knew that auras were one of the few things that Chosen and Magic Born could be said to have in common. Magic, regardless of where it might have originated, charged the very essence of who a person was. It created a perpetual type of energy that was discernible to all who could sense magic. And for those who were strong, their auras could be felt by those who were not supernatural. 

Zaresh was a prime example of this. Most of the Chosen of Shaddall possessed a shadowy, slightly cold presence. However, whenever his mother entered the room, he always felt as though she had managed to bring a cold snap with her even on the hottest of days. The Chosen, for the most part, could follow a logical pattern based upon the deities who had given them their power. The Magic Born were utterly unique in their auras. Yet, another reason why very few trusted them. 

“I admire your ingenuity.” said Tariq, “My tutors are always telling me that I need to think more creatively. I’m sure that if I had put myself to the same task you're doing right now, I would have given up from frustration long ago.”

Samira looked up from her notes, and gave him a shy smile. The complement had obviously pleased her, seeing as how she received so very few. “Honestly, though it is frustrating, a part of me does enjoy delving into the past. Sometimes, I find one piece of a legend or story completely unrelated to what I’m trying to find, and I just have to investigate it further.” She held up the book she had been scribbling furiously in. “Actually, that’s why I’ve had to start keeping notes like this. Otherwise, I would probably never get anything done.”

Tariq found himself returning the smile. He loved listening to her speak about something she so obviously loved. She became so animated and happy, so different from the unhappy silence that seemed to follow her anywhere she went. Surely, there could not be any harm in inspiring more of that? 

He glanced down at the book of legends that was still open on the phoenix, wondering what legend she could possibly be looking at that would help with her current goals, and if there might be anything he could possibly do to help. “I’ve always thought that there always has to be some truth to legends, even those that took place hundreds of years ago. Sometimes you have to look through dozens of different layers to find it.”

Samira smiled at him excitedly. “That’s exactly what I think. I-I don’t suppose you’d like to help me at all, would you? An extra pair of eyes can always make things a little easier.”

Tariq stared at her, somewhat questioningly. Surely, she couldn’t be trying to spend time with him, of all people. Granted, the idea that she would want to made him very happy, but even he knew how impossible such a thing was. He was the son of the woman who was the princess’ greatest opponent within court circles, to say nothing of the laws which so expressly forbade Magic Born of the royal family forming romantic attachments. 

Sometimes, he did wonder if those draconian measures were necessary anymore, but they were still the laws of the country, and neither he nor Samira could do anything to change that. She must be wiser than to even put herself in that sort of danger. 

However, before he could make any sort of answer, their conversation was interrupted. Samira abruptly stiffened, eyes growing wide with shock. She glanced nervously at the stacks and the aisles beyond. “The Lore Keeper, he’s coming.”

Tariq frowned at the mention of the head librarian, and one of the high priests of Ehlir. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it is.” Samira hurried over, and started to close the books. She was clearly becoming anxious. “I’m not supposed to be here. The Lore Keeper forbade me to come to the library after our last argument. He believes I’m researching dangerous ideas.”

“Then, how did you even get in here?” Tariq asked. 

“I have my ways. But, if he catches, he’ll throw me out very publicly and complain to my father.” She looked rather wistfully at the book opened to the picture of the phoenix. “I was just getting close to something. I know it.”

Tariq’s next decision came entirely by instinct. He hated seeing Samira so distraught, especially when there was often so little he could do to make it better. Nonetheless, he knew this was one time he could make a difference. He picked up the book and pressed it into her hands. “Take it. Go.” 

Samira was surprised. “But, taking books from the library, it’s forbidden without the permission-”

“Yes, I know. I’ll say I have it if anyone asks. You can give it back to me when you’re finished.”

Samira didn’t know what to say. Besides her own family, she didn’t know how to respond when someone offered her kindness. Receiving it from someone like Tariq was even more surprising, no matter what her personal feelings towards him might have been. Nonetheless, she wasn’t willing to argue with him. 

“Th-thank you.” She said, hurriedly grabbing her notes along with the book, and turned to rush back through the stacks the way she had first entered. 

She reached for the strands of magic weaving into the stones beneath her, softening her footsteps from detection. She could sense a faint energy from the other people in the library, and she used that sixth sense to avoid any unwanted attention. Many parts of her magic seemed random and beyond her control, but her abilities to use the earth to her advantage was something that she had been able to use. 

Eventually, she made her way out of the library, and into the common areas of the Temple Promenade. The gardens which separated the various temples were normally quiet and reflective, places for the faithful to gather their thoughts and prayers. It worked out well for anyone who didn’t want to be disturbed, as well. Samira hurriedly made her way to a fountain that was in an isolated section of the gardens. Only once she was there, did she take out her notes and the book of legends Tariq had slipped her. 

It was the picture of the phoenix which had first caught her attention. It almost exactly resembled the creatures she had been seeing with increasing frequency. Most stories of mysterious visitations had them occurring in the world of dreams, where anything might be open to interpretation. Samira had had no such luxury. The phoenix she had seen came only when she was awake and alone. 

So far, three different birds had appeared to her, each burning in a cloud of fire that was a distinct color: ruby, bronze and ebony. They had come separately and together, often appearing at the edges of her vision when she was trying to practice her magic. Whenever she did see them, she had felt a surge of power and brightness through the threads of magic which constantly surrounded her. Sometimes, there would be a spark of inspiration that she found herself using in the days to come. Other times, her lack of experience made her lose focus, and the phoenix would vanish completely. 

No one else ever saw them, and she doubted whether anyone else would believe her if she told them. She didn't know what the phoenix was trying to tell her exactly. But, unlike many of her other tutors or teachers who had thrown up their hands in frustration after only a few failed lessons, the phoenix kept coming back. With infinite patience, she believed that they were trying to help her realize something. Just that morning, the ebony phoenix had appeared to her outside of the library, leading her to the shelves where her research had started. Given how vast the library itself was, and the fact that she needed to tread carefully in it’s halls, she didn’t think she would have found those books in time without the phoenix’s guidance. 

What the end result of all this might, she still wasn’t entirely certain. She had been seeing the phoenix for the last six months now, and every time, she tried to speak to them, but the secret remained elusive. It wasn’t until she had seen the picture of this phoenix that something had snapped into place. The picture itself was the closest match she had found of the creatures who were appearing to her, originating before the Succession Wars had destroyed nearly all records of magical usage. She had a clue now as to the time period she needed to delve into. No small feat given how little reliable information remained of that period. 

While she was staring at the picture of the phoenix, she began to feel the wind picking up around her, rustling the pages of the book. She thought nothing of it, at first, until she began to see that the branches of the bushes and trees were still, unmoved by the forces of nature. 

Samira gasped in surprise, realizing almost too late the wind around her was burning with a sapphire blue color, indicating that the wind was originating in some other, unseen force. She recognized it, from when the flames had burned just a little brighter or the stones of the palace beneath her feet had started to shake. But, this was a new phoenix.

The bird-like creature burst from the torrent of wind which continued to engulf her. The features were discernible, but almost every part was highly exaggerated. The neck was proud and arching, and an elegant plume of feathers framed it’s head. Each feather was immaculate, almost jewel-like. Each feather was on fire, with a near iridescent blue flame. The Phoenix’s eyes were also flaming, a subtle fringe of white against the sapphire which permeated the animals’ coloring. 

Those eyes fixed on her intently, and the wind seemed to pick up around them. The book flew from her hand, as did her notes, landing on the ground where the wind continued to swirl and leaf through the pages, faster than her eyes were able to follow. She began to understand that there was a message the phoenix was trying to imart to her. She needed to control the whirlwind, trust her instincts to know when she was meant to stop it. 

She reached out to her magic, finding the sapphire threads amidst the tangle. It was harder than she had anticipated to control them. It seemed as though the wind had a mind of its own, preferring to go in random directions rather than in the one she wanted it. She tried to quell the frustration welling up inside her, and held into the threads with all her strength. Eventually, she was able to nudge the wind in what felt like the right direction. The book’s pages continued moving, only it seemed as though they were following some sort of pattern. 

What came next was a fleeting suggestion at the back of her mind, but at the last possible moment, she listened. The threads she had been following became knotted together, not incredibly neatly, and a few stray gusts of wind continued to move around her, but the magic was effectively stopped. 

The pages of the book and her own notes had also gone still. The book had opened to a specific page. It wasn’t a phoenix, but it spoke to something just as deeply inside of her. It was a loom, stretched with multiple threads, creating a tapestry of color with exquisite detail. She couldn’t see the face of the person sitting at the loom, but the composition was almost beyond human skill. 

The phoenix had walked over to an errant page that was lying on the ground, picked it up in it’s flaming beak without setting it alight, and then came over to the book. It set the page down beside the book. There was a single word burned into the page in elegant calligraphy. She knew that she hadn’t written it. The phoenix pointed at the two pages in turn with it’s flaming beak, trying to get across a very important message. 

The word and image flashed in her mind, fusing themselves together. There couldn’t be one without the other. This was what she had been looking for. Excitement flooded through her at the epiphany. She looked up at the phoenix, who nodded once. Apparently, this was the message it was hoping she would understand. 

At that very moment, she heard her sister’s voice calling her name from the direction of the Spire. She started in surprise. The phoenix suddenly vanished, as did the trailing winds of the spell which seemed to trailer around it. She glanced around and saw her sister approaching through the gardens. She quickly gathered up her notes and the book, hiding them in her satchel. 

“Samira, Samira,” Jasmine rushed up to her sister, wild with excitement. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“No, just the opposite. We just heard from the harbor. Mama’s ship has been sighted. Mama is home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Next chapter: Jafar arrives in Agrabah. Many things still feel wrong, and he still can't remember what they are. His one hope to regain what he's lost lies with his ability to bluff to the Sultan of Agrabah. This should be easier, if it weren't for the fact that the eldest princess seems much more discerning than he had anticipated.


	6. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jafar arrives at Agrabah, not entirely certain what exactly he's doing or what his future holds. The Magic Born princess immediately puts him on edge. But, his smooth way with words, and his mask of perfect self-confidence just might be enough to give him a start.

Arrival:

Jafar was appropriately impressed at his first sight of Agrabah. The capital city was not called the Jewel of the Verdant Sea for nothing. The entire shoreline was packed with shops of every type. Within the city proper, buildings glowed with the white and golden stone mined along the southern edge of the desert. Dominating all this was the royal palace **.** It was a magnificent building, each floor effortlessly gliding upwards, to the heights of the golden domes that caped several of the airy rooms. Within the floors, graceful arches carved in white, gold and silver stone all melded together in perfect symmetry. 

However, Jafar’s eyes were inexplicably drawn to the soaring tower located along the borders of the palace. It butted up against the thick walls, withstanding the constant pounding of the sea’s waves far below. It didn’t seem to be a particularly special part of the palace. As far as he could tell, there weren't even any guards posted, so it obviously wasn’t considered important enough to defend. Nonetheless, something about it made Jafar want to see just what the view might have been like at the top, away and free from restraints of any kind. 

It was a foolish, childish notion, like so many others which had been eating at him during this voyage. Approaching the main docks, he heard the sea gulls and other various water birds wheeling and calling overhead. Every such sound brought an involuntary flinch. Something wasn’t right. There should be something else here with him. Something else blocked from his memory, behind several thick walls that he didn’t have the strength to break through. 

Tamara’s use of magic had revealed the deception he had been living with for years, but his memory was still fragmented almost beyond repair. Terrible nightmares had started to plague him in the past few days, nightmares of horrible things which had been done and which he had done to others. His magic was weak; he didn’t even know how to regain a small part of where he had once been. 

He wasn’t sad that he had been freed from the Conclave’s influence. That didn’t mean he enjoyed being weakened to the point of a child. 

His thoughts were interrupted as Tamara came up to stand beside him. A few steps behind her was Quadira, who had not warmed up to him by any means. She still viewed his every moment with suspicion and seemed ready to draw her weapon and kill him at the slightest provocation. 

“You seem rather quiet.” Tamara observed, but in such a way that it couldn’t be called patronizing. If there was one thing he had learned from the last few days, it was that Tamara rarely made pointless, obvious suppositions. Even when remarking on the seemingly obvious and mundane, there was always something deeper that she would be imparting. “Most young men would be expressing at least a hint of curiosity when they began a new life.”

Jafar glared at her venomously, though, he couldn’t summon the hatred to make it truly menacing. “Curiosity would imply that I had entered into this new life willingly. You know better than anyone that this was not a choice. I’m not going to dissemble to anyone by pretending I’m happy about it.”

His words seemed to do nothing to upset the perfect calm and serenity that Tamara had. “Your sense of biting honestly will not earn you many friends at court.”

“I’m hardly looking for friends.” 

“I’m still trying to figure out what it is exactly you’re looking for.” said Tamara, “I look forward to seeing what it is.”

By this time, the ship had been secured to the dock, and it was safe to disembark. “Have you considered what you’re going to tell the Sultan?” Jafar asked, “I can hardly imagine he will be welcoming to someone like me.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge him.” said Tamara, as they stepped onto the gangplank, “As for what I’m planning to tell him, I plan on simply telling him the truth, selectively.” She stopped at the edge of the gangplank and looked back at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Probably not. And, believe me, it’s fortunate for you that you know that.” With that, she stepped onto the gangplank and began heading to the dock. 

Quadira followed her royal mistress, being sure to keep throwing a suspicious look back at Jafar. It was clear that while Tamara might have trusted him to some extent, she most certainly did not. Jafar still wasn't entirely sure how far he would have trusted the Sultana, but for the first time in his life, he knew he truly didn’t have a choice. So, he would simply have to make the best of what he had been given. Squaring his shoulders, and forcing his hands to stop shaking, he followed them down the gangplank, stepping for the first time onto Agrabah soil.

The Docklands were a bustling hive of humanity and activity. Multiple languages flew thick and fast, scraps and fragments of which Jafar was able to understand. Cargo of every possible size and description were being loaded and unloaded from the ships, while sailors, merchants, and other less savory characters plied their wares. The smell of fish, spices and stale sweat assaulted his nostrils. He found himself having to step carefully in order to avoid running into someone or dirtying his feet with something he didn’t want to think about. 

In a word, the Docklands were little better than barely controlled chaos. Yet, to his mute surprise, Tamara proceeded to make her way on foot through the Docklands. She was closely guarded, of course, but he wondered if even that was merely a formality. Everyone who noticed the Sultana seemed to view her passing by with absolute devotion, many exclaiming greetings of respect and welcome, all of which Tamara accepted with the utmost grace. 

As they were passing through the Docklands, he began to see the multiple shrines dotting the piers. Most were dedicated to the god of trade and civil law, Ravdun. However, he also saw another shrine appearing alongside these places of respect, though with less frequency. These shrines showed a swirling tempest, punctuated by the sharp points of swords, spears, bow and arrows, along with other weapons of war. Spread across this storm of weapons were the undulating bodies of dragons. 

Jafar recognized it with surprise: it was dedicated to Ytion. He was a shattered deity, one which had been struck down nearly ten thousand years before in the last great war between the djinn, the gods and their separate followers. He had been shattered, but not completely killed. Lingering pockets of believers who kept the spark of belief alive till they were healed enough to exert their power once more. 

Jafar had heard of Ytion, General of the Waves. He was a particularly hated and vilified enemy of the Conclave. Little more than a century before, this long shattered god had been awakened by a new champion, and his influence was sweeping through the domains of the south and east with alarming speed. Protector of the seas, general of war and strategy, Ytion was a formidable opponent for even the most powerful of the djinn.

Not that he had any stake in that conflict anymore. That fight was behind him. 

That’s what he tried to tell himself. But even as he turned away from the shrines he passed with disinterest, he couldn’t help but feel that one of those dragons in the tempest was staring out from its stone relief directly at him. Had he felt this odd sensation at only one of the shrines, he probably would have been able to ignore it. However, Jafar felt the tingling, almost electric sensation crawling along his spine with every shrine they passed. 

He began to feel that, for all the shrines dedicated to Ytion were seemingly fewer in number, there were far too many for his liking. 

The contemplation of these shrines and his surroundings was brought to an abrupt halt by a loud scream of excitement from a particularly noisy child. Jafar was rather disappointed when the child in question appeared from out of the crowd and rushed into Tamara’s waiting arms. Tamara embraced her happily, pulling her up into the air and twirling her around. It was her younger daughter, Jasmine, the princess who would be inheriting the kingdom once she came of age and found a suitable husband. As always, the eldest princess wouldn’t be given a position within the hierarchy, being essentially a non-entity. 

“Oh, mama, I’m so glad your home. I missed you.” Jasmine was eagerly chattering. 

“I missed you so much, my darling.” said Tamara, “Don’t tell me you came all this way without your father or Samira. Where are they?”

“No, they’re coming. I’m just faster than they are.” said Jasmine, with all the pride of a child of eleven years. 

Jafar had no real interest in Jasmine, besides how annoyingly happy she seemed to be. She was nothing more than a child, an inconsequential gnat that would most likely have no influence on him or his future. After all, what real power would she have, even if the line of the present ruling family would continue through her?

A few minutes later, Sultan Hamed and his eldest daughter Samira came through the crowd to greet Tamara. There was a squad of soldiers there, clearing the way for the royal family. At their head was a soldier who bore the insignia of a captain. The Sultan called him Hakim in passing. 

Hamed was believed by most rulers within the region to be fair and just. His people loved him. He was a veteran of battles along the borders of the vast desert beyond the gates of Agrabah Fiery Expanse, ensuring the overland trade routes had become consolidated and protected throughout his reign. He had come to prefer treaties and negotiations to outright battles. Jafar realized that Hamed was a man who might value the way words were used. That was at least a quality that hadn’t lessened with his change in fortunes. 

Hamed came up to Tamara, who put Jasmine down to accept an embrace from him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jafar saw Qadira’s stern mask slip into a warm smile, as another girl who had been traveling within the royal contingent ran to greet her. He believed he thought the handmaiden called the girl Dalia, but that wasn’t really any of his concern. He was much more interested in the first impression he would receive of this supposedly incredibly powerful princess that the Conclave had been willing to risk war to get their hands on. 

The Sultan embraced Tamara. “My love, welcome home. We have all miss you so much,”

“It’s so good to be home, Hamed.” said Tamara, returning her husband’s warm smile. She looked over at Samira, and hugged her. “Ah, Samira. Tell me you’ve been getting up to some mischief while I've been gone.”

“Nothing that would possibly be exciting enough to tell you.” said Samira.

“Well, then you must do a better job of it.” 

“She really doesn’t need your encouragement.” said the Sultan, indulgently. It was only at this point that he noticed the man who had been standing awkwardly to one side, not entirely sure when or if Tamara would actually get around to introducing him. Hamed looked over at his wife with a questioning expression.

Tamara didn’t even hesitate. “Ah, my dear, this is Jafar, an enterprising immigrant from Shirabad who made himself quite useful on the voyage home.”

“Really?” said Hamed, who appeared more interested than hostile, “In what manner?”

“He helped our ship navigate through the Vortex.” Tamara explained, “Had it not been for his expertise, the ship could have blown off-course. Our return would have been delayed by weeks.”

Jafar was amazed when he heard how smoothly Tamara handled the explanation. She had skillfully drawn attention to his heroic actions rather than why he was on the ship at all. It wasn’t entirely a lie, either. He  _ had  _ helped their ship through the Vortex, the perpetual cycle of storms that lay between Agrabah and Shirabad. The Vortex was dangerous and unpredictable. The ship had been caught in a strong eddy of wind and hail which had not just threatened to push the ship off course, but to destroy it outright. 

He had been forced to emerge from his hiding place in the hold in order to offer some assistance. It was a risk, as it had exposed him to the crew as a stowaway. But, he hadn’t fancied dying in the middle of the ocean, no matter his own feelings of guilt and disgust. Almost by instinct, he had been able to find a path for the ship through the storm, and even beyond, out of the Vortex itself in near record time. 

Because of this, and Tamara’s personally vouching for him, the ship’s captain had refrained from throwing him overboard, but he had been greeted with nothing but dislike and suspicion by most everyone else onboard for the remainder of the voyage. 

Now, standing in front of the Sultan of Agrabah, he found that he was facing his first major challenge. He needed to turn attention away from why he was there in the first place, painting a picture of himself as a selfless petitioner merely seeking to do the right thing. 

Hamed’s attention focused on him, his expression interested. “You are most welcome to Agrabah, Jafar. I have to thank you if you did indeed keep my wife safe on the voyage home.”

Hamed had spoken in Shirabadan, perhaps believing that Jafar would have more confidence speaking in his native tongue. But, Jafar hadn’t been trained to take on so many different guises for nothing. Language was only one of the many things he had learned to master. “I thank you, Sultan.” He said, Agrabah’s dialect floating effortlessly from his lips, though maybe one could have heard the slight accent of Shirabad’s streets coloring his words. “However, I am not much of a hero. I was merely ensuring the safety of the ship and those onboard. Anyone who was able would have done the same.”

“Is it because of the magic you have?” All eyes turned to Samira who had asked the rather bold question without a hint of hesitation. 

“Samira,” said the Sultan sternly, “What have we said about bringing up such subjects in public and in the company of strangers?”

“It’s quite alright, Sultan.” said Jafar, “I’m perfectly aware that Agrabah has certain restrictions placed on magic, and the princess has sensed right, I am Magic Born. However, I don’t know how to answer the question, seeing as how we haven’t been properly introduced.”

It had been meant to be a put down, almost to garner favor with the Sultan by showing him how much he valued protocol. However, much to his surprise, Samira actually answered him of her own accord. “I suppose you’re right. In that case, let me introduce myself and my sister. I’m Samira, this is Princess Jasmine.” She actually gave him an elegant curtsey that belonged more to the grand receiving halls of the palace and not the muddied streets of the Docklands. “Will that suffice for an introduction?”

Jafar turned his gaze on her, and for the first time, he allowed himself to examine Samira directly. She was no longer the object of his missions, so he had thought she would be of as little consequence to him as her sister. Now, seeing her in person for the first time, he began to think that he would need to redefine that idea. 

She was clearly powerful. He could see that with a single look. Indeed, he had seen few auras in his time that were naturally so glowing and bright. All Magic Born had an aura, but for the most part, one needed to work hard to improve their skills over years in order to gain half the strength which he now saw in the princess standing before him. However, he also saw that the tangled skeins of her aura were wild and erratic.it was quite clear that she had no real idea how truly powerful she was, or if she did, she had no way to capture it fully. 

Her magic was unique and wild. He could understand why the Conclave were interested in her. At the same time, she appeared to be incredibly perceptive, and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind despite her nebulous status within the royal family. He would obviously have to tread carefully around her. “Did you always approach things so very formally?” He inquired. 

“Only when I find it to be convenient, as I’m sure you’ll find out very soon.” said Samira, “What made you decide to come to Agrabah? For a Magic Born like yourself, it seems like an odd place to begin a new life.”

Samira was speaking the truth. Jafar was unlike any other magic user she had ever met. His aura was a storm. Grey clouds seemed to swirl around him in perpetual motion. She could smell the rain and see the flashes of lightning. However, the storm was broken as if it were trying to form itself around a weakened center that couldn’t quite balance itself. 

However, what truly intrigued her was that she could see nothing of his past. This strange ability had started to grow stronger over the last few years. People assumed that she was merely reading minds, which didn’t help to make many more people trust her. Yet, the thoughts which raced through peoples’ minds were chaotic and difficult to focus on. Memory was stable. The past influenced the present and the future. Those things were harder to hide, and the secrets she knew were probably far more valuable than any surface thoughts she might have been able to guess. 

But, whatever Jafar might have been before Agrabah was hidden within those dark clouds. Try as she might to see past them, it seemed to be the one thing over which he seemed to have complete control. It was obvious to her that he had secrets he didn’t want anyone else to know. She didn’t know yet if that was something which should frighten her. 

Jafar’s response to her inquiry didn’t give her anything to go one either. “There are many ways to make oneself in the world, not all of them made by choice. Agrabah happened to be the best option that was the best choice that I was given..”

“So, you actually grew up in Shirabad?” Jasmine questioned, eagerly, “What was it like?”

Jasmine had always wanted to visit Shirabad. She was fascinated by the stories her mother told her and the books which she scoured from the palace libraries. Shirabad seemed a magical, otherworldly place, and it had captured the imagination of both princesses. Anyone from Shirabad was certain to be a subject of new fascination for them, especially Jasmine. 

However, Jafar didn’t even deign to fake excitement at Jasmine’s question. In fact, he was barely able to conceal his disgusted sneer with an expression of impatience. “Shirabad is very much like Agrabah. When you see a palace from the streets, there’s really nothing that sets one city apart from another.”

This answer seemed to shock Jasmine into utter silence, but the Sultan at last stepped in to bring the conversation to an end before it became anymore awkward. “Regardless of what brings you here, Jafar, you’re welcome. I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for in Agrabah.”

It was merely an empty formality. Jafar was certain of it. But, even empty formality had a certain weight to it, especially when it came to the word of a ruler. With the Sultan’s approval, Jafar entered the service of the royal family. But, if they had been judging each other simply from their first meeting, neither Jafar nor Samira had seen much to impress them. They could never have known just how much their destinies were to be interwoven with the other. That was still a great deal of a way in the future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I know that the chapters are sort of slow in coming, but there is a lot of story to get through. If anyone is wondering where Iago is, don't worry, he's coming. So is Rajah. Really can't have a good Aladdin movie without them. 
> 
> Next chapter: Jafar begins his difficult transition to living in Agrabah. Struggling to regain his magic and his sense of identity, he believes that he is fighting a losing battle alone. Until his dreams start to be visited a mysterious presence, one who could very well be the key to everything he's trying to find.


	7. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jafar struggles to find his place in the court of Agrabah, he finds that his confidence and magical abilities are sluggish and weak. Dreams of his past continue to haunt his dreams, yet a perpetual storm is raging inside him. What and who lies on the other side will determine the ultimate path of his future.

Eye of the Storm:

Jafar found it more difficult than he had anticipated to make the adjustment to his new life in Agrabah. Despite the story which the Sultana had given to Hamed, the wagging tongues of the ship’s crew couldn’t be so easily silenced. Within weeks, he began to hear the whispers behind his back from the other citizens of the palace, and encountered the cold distaste before his eyes. 

It was soon known that the Sultana’s newest recruit was nothing more than a beggar from Shirabad’s streets, who hadn’t even been able to pay for his own passage, but had stolen even that.

The Sultan never spoke of it, nor did Tamara, though he was certain that both of them were aware of it. Indeed, Tamara continued to be nothing but kind to him. All the same, she could hardly check up on his progress every single day. It was, perhaps, for the best, that he continued to be his only support. It’s not like he had a great deal else to call upon.

Everyone avoided him as much as they could. Those who were forced to speak to him did so in ways that were little more than barely concealed insults. Of course, part of that might have stemmed from his decision to refuse to flatter the people who could have made his life easier. Jafar could have done this, and easily slipped into the role of a dutiful sycophant. He had done so many times before, but that had always been to get close to his target. He had no intention of playing that game now to make his life easier. 

He was determined, this time, he would be nothing but what he made for himself. Yet, for a Magic Born in a place like Agrabah, especially one with as much raw power as Jafar, it would have been difficult for him to get anywhere without guidance. Fortunately, someone had seen Jafar, and had a far more different perspective of his fortunes than anyone in Agrabah yet realized, including Jafar himself. 

* * *

As his new life continued to unfold, with his future still uncertain, the dreams kept coming. Nightmares of his past failures continued to plague him. He still didn’t know which of those failures were real, and which were false memories. Over time, however, he began to be aware of another dream overshadowing even these familiar nightmares. This one dream soon became predominant amongst all his others, so realistic and vivid that it stated to haunt his waking moments as well. 

It seemed that every time sleep came to him, he would immediately be caught up in a fierce storm which engulfed him, tossing him violently and without end across an endless dark sea. He lost count of how many times he drowned, only to be surged back to the surface once more to begin the whole process over and over again. 

This cointuned for weeks. Somehow, he became almost impervious to the tempest, despite the fact that it sapped his strength almost every night. Once he had come to the point where he could almost stay afloat for long periods of time, he began to be aware of the other details within the storm which was constantly raging around him. 

Whenever the lightning flashed across the darkened clouds, he could see the echoes of his own life, the broken memories he was struggling to piece back together somehow starting to become more clear. The echoing rolls of thunder were voices of people he had loved and those he had come to hate. The former was far outweighed by the latter, yet, the screams he also heard in the thunder were from those he had once held dear, and been powerless to save. 

Every flashing image, every echoing voice sliced something deep inside him. The weight of his failure was suffocating, often more than enough to send him once more beneath the tossing waves. 

He began to realize that the storm was of his own making. It was coming from his very self. And it was with this realization that he first began to hear something else sounding from the thunder, a voice that seemed to repeat one phrase over and over, “Find the eye. Find the eye.”

He didn’t know what that meant. And every time he thought he was on the verge of understanding, the dream would come to an abrupt end, and he would wake drenched in sweat and struggling to breath. In his daily routine, he did everything in his power to forget the storm he kept seeing in his sleep. Sometimes, he almost succeeded. Yet, as the days passed, he started to become aware of something else. 

He was starting to grow stronger. 

* * *

He hadn’t been planning on finding a group of people within the palace with whom he could feel at ease. It turned out that the palace guards who protected the royal family were not so fastidious when it came to Magic Born within their midst, nor were they apt to condemn a man for lowly origins. 

Indeed, Hakim, the General of the Palace guard, had taken an early interest in the misfit foreigner. Whether it was because Tamara had pointed him out to Hakim or the general had seen the same thing in Jafar without being told, he had started training Jafar with the rest of his men. Jafar knew the basics of handling a blade, but even he knew that he relied more on his magical aptitude, and could probably stand to improve in actual fighting. He had never been afraid of physical exertion. It gave him something to focus on besides his dreams. 

But, it was on the training fields that his magic began to manifest itself. He was training with another young soldier named Razoul. Hakim was watching them both closely, and he seemed to correct Jafar as much he praised Razoul's expert swordsmanship. “Jafar, watch your blind spots.” He was saying. “It will not matter how fast you are if your opponent catches you off-guard.”

Jafar tightened his jaw, feeling the sweat dripping down his face. He was used to weapons with a shorter reach and a lighter weight. Evasion was not altogether difficult. Keeping his distance from his opponents was a more difficult concept to learn. 

It wasn’t helping his frustration that his dreams of the night before had been especially chaotic, broken reflections of laughter and mockery from the people who had broken him continually dancing across his mind’s eye. The desperation to drive those images from his mind fueled the strength of his attacks, but made him blind to the hints of what his opponent would do next. Repeatedly, Razoul was tripping him up and winning. 

His frustration was all too often his undoing. But today, the frustration was fueling something in the magic around him. Something in the storm seemed to reach out to that overpowering emotion, latching onto it with an intense attraction. All signs seemed to point to Razoul winning again, until Jafar reacted out of pure instinct, reaching out for the sudden lightning flashing in his line of sight. 

The crackling energy flashed from his hand, slamming Razoul squarely in the chest, sending the unfortunate man flying back several feet. Hakim had been watching the exchange with keen interest. He looked over at Razoul who was scrambling to his feet, throwing an annoyed glare at Jafar, though whether it was because he had been blasted by lightning or because he had lost for the first time that day was open to interpretation. 

“Are you alright, Razoul?” 

“Well enough.” said Razoul, with a grumble, “I’m sure I’ll be well enough to anticipate that little trick of yours’ the next time i’m on rotation with you.”

Razoul stalked away, as Hakim came up to Jafar, who was breathing heavily. “The goal of these bouts is to find a way to disarm the person you're fighting against. Your method was unique, but it was certainly effective.”

Jafar accepted the compliment with a nod. He didn’t need the praise, but it was still nice to receive it. “You pick up a few tricks when you need to survive on the streets.”

Hakim didn’t comment on this. He merely asked, “Do you think that blast of yours’ is strong enough to cause severe injury?” 

Jafar paused and looked over at Hakim, the storm rolling around him, darkening his vision and sending renewed strength through his veins. “I can assure you, under the right circumstances, it’s strong enough to kill.”

If Hakim heard the low rumble in Jafar’s voice, he didn’t comment on it. “I would remember that. Such skills as yours’ can be invaluable in clearing a field of opponents. It might be a lifesaver one day.”

Hakim smiled at Jafar, giving his shoulder and encouraging squeeze before heading off to other parts of the training field. Jafar merely stood in the same spot for several seconds, staring down at the hand where the lightning had come from. He could still feel the prickling energy along his palm. He hadn’t been able to summon anything like that since arriving in Agrabah. He simply hadn’t been able to summon the strength.

But just now, the magic had come back to him, quite out of nowhere. Only a small burst to be sure, but it was thrilling to feel even this much. Where had it come from?

There was the faint rumble of thunder in the back of his mind. “Find the eye.”

Jafar squeezed his fingers together, and closed his eyes. He needed to find the source of that voice. The only way he could do that would be to wade into the storm once again. 

* * *

He found himself wondering if he had ever truly been alone in the midst of the storm. Whatever manner of creature or entity it was that had been watching him, it was continually flying above his location within the storm, as though tracking his progress, though it seemed to never interfere. It almost seemed to be waiting for something. 

This creature was ancient. There was a raw power that Jafar could feel whenever it passed by to close, a power that made even the height of Shirabad’s strongest mages seem to pale in comparison. It seemed perfectly at home in the storm, flying around and amidst the swirling winds with the ease of a sparrow on a clear day.

As the nights passed, and Jafar continued to be pulled into the storm, he began to hear the voice ringing ever more clearly above the fierce waves and the roaring wind. The voice held all the power of the pounding thunder, yet whispered in his ear as gently as the lapping waves on a sea shore.

“The storm is your strength.” The entity whispered, encouragingly, “Don’t seek to put it out. Rather seek to be it’s master.”

Night by night, dream by dream, he began to fight against the storm’s seemingly endless reach. And the tide, literally and slowly began to turn. He started to swim with the current as opposed to being swept into the whirlpools and eddies of fear, guilt and rage. He no longer drowned in the memories of a lifetime spent on the street or at the beck and call of the masters in Shirabad. He began to hold his head above water. 

He began to find that he wasn’t content with merely surviving. He hungered to control this maelstrom, to bend the storm to his will. Instead of allowing himself to be weakened by his memories, he began to feed off the anger against his enemies, and determination that it would never happen again.

Soon, the storm was no longer the master of his dreams. It still raged as strong and as violent as ever, only now he was the one directing the energy, absorbing the power and achieving success. 

And then, one night, the storm was finally still. Thunder, lightning and rain swirled around him, but where Jafar stood, there was nothing but calm. 

“At last.” That voice spoke again, emanating from the storm, echoing all around him. “Storm Walker, you have learned well. The first lesson is always the hardest, the longest. But, now you have discovered the eye of this storm, you will be able to find it more easily again.”

The sea around him was dark, illuminated weakly by the near constant spatterings of lightning in the clouds around him. Jafar thought that he heard the rasping of rough skin and the beating of strong wings close beside him. Yet he couldn’t make out anything definite about the large shape which was highlighted against the clouds. He was dimly aware that he should probably be frightened. He was too exhausted to even attempt faking such a reaction. 

“Who are you?” Jafar asked, “You’ve been watching me all this time. What do you want? Are you the one who threw me into this storm?”

More strange rasping from beyond the darkness, and Jafar felt the strong pull of air rushing around him, carrying with it the smell of rain, coupled with the stinging burn from a fresh lightning strike. “This storm has always been inside you. I was merely trying to help you remember what it felt like before what was rightfully yours’ was taken from you.”

Jafar took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He felt a high of exertion and excitement the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps, that was why he was so willing to push his luck with a being clearly more powerful than he was. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I was drowning every single night for weeks. When that wasn’t happening, I was fighting it till I was nearly exhausted. So, forgive me if I don’t have the patience for riddles that have no answers.”

The rumbling sound of laughter echoed in the space around him. “You want a plain answer, Storm Walker? If you think you can stand it, I’ll give it to you.” 

The rasping sound started to come closer, and there were vibrations trembling in the air around him. Out of the shadows and darkness of the surrounding clouds, a pair of eyes became visible, but they were not the eyes of a creature that Jafar had ever seen before. 

They were like two masses of crackling lightning, sparking with white hot energy. Within that light, Jafar felt himself completely exposed, as though this being could see everything that had ever happened to him, even those which he himself had been forced to forget.. It’s massive head resembled a cobra, a hood-like mantal spread between its upper shoulders and the top most portion of it’s head.

From that head emerged a long, serpentine body. He heard once again the sound of hard scales scraping against each other, as the creature came fully into the light. It’s body was grey with a dull sheen of silver across the scales. Lightening wasn’t just shining from the dragon’s eyes, it was also arcing across and over the scales. The massive wings were an intense black, and it seemed with each movement of them, there came a dull rumble of thunder. It’s breath seemed to hold the scent of rain which had yet to fall. Every part of its body seemed to bristle with the inherent power of the very storm he had been battling for days.

Jafar instantly recognized the creature staring down at him: it was the same dragon from the Ytion icons he had noticed upon his arrival in Agrabah. And more, he knew it by description from his years at the Conclave.

“Impossible.” Jafar breathed, as all the disparate pieces started falling into place. “This is impossible. You can’t be…”

“What, Storm Walker?” breathed the dragon, sounding almost amused. “Why should this visitation seem so impossible? I suppose the Conclave told you stories about me and my fellow guardians, how we were scattered asunder when our creator was Shattered in the last great conflict. That should be a moot point since my master was awakened almost a century ago, yet I suppose the lies must give them a sense of comfort that we are still weak.”

At the Conclave, this dragon had been known as Ir’Deth. Even when that name was spoken, it was only ever in hushed whispers of mixed fear and contempt. Ir'deth was one of the guardians created with the final breath of Ytion before he had been shattered, guardians meant to hold the god’s enemies at bay until such a time as he would be strong enough to return once again. 

Of all these guardians of the god of storm and war, Ir’deth was considered one of the greatest enemies of the Chimera Conclave. His influence was continually thwarting and undermining their plans. The Masters at the Conclave said that he controlled the Vortex, using it as a weapon to keep the Conclave and Shirabad from expanding into the surrounding nations. 

Yet, despite his fearsome reputation, he was also held to be something of a myth, a force to be reckoned with surely, but invisible. His various depictions as a cobra-headed dragon were nothing more than fanciful interpretations from more superstitious and simple-minded people. 

At least. That’s what Jafar had always thought. He had heard all the stories, responded in all the proper ways. But, he had never truly paid much attention. What did it matter to him who was winning this war between the Djinn and long shattered gods? He had been too obsessed with feeding his hunger for knowledge and power to concern himself with matters of fanatic superstition. It had all seemed too far away from his day to day life to really matter. 

Now, here he was standing in the presence of an immortal dragon, one step away from a god. Should he be scared? Should he be in awe? He didn’t know. Strangely, the only definite reaction he could name was confusion. “What do you want?” He heard himself ask, as the dragon circled around him. “Why waste all this time testing to me if you were just going to kill me?”

Ir'deth suddenly stopped, turning the full force of his lightning filled eyes on Jafar. “Kill you? Why should I want to kill you? I need you, Storm Walker. You’re far too valuable to lose.”

Jafar could only scoff at this. “ Valuable? I thought you immortals were supposed to be the epitome of wisdom. If you truly know anything about me, you would know that I’ve been trained my whole life to fight beings like you.” 

“I know that, but I also know that you’ve been held back. Your abilities have been stunted and diminished. I know you’ve felt it. You honestly think that was a mistake on the part of the Conclave? They were afraid of you, Jafar. They saw your potential from the very beginning, everything that you could become. Now, you’re free from them, it’s time to reclaim who you really are.”

“Why this storm?” Jafar asked, gesturing at the clouds still rolling with lightning and thunder. “What does it mean?”

“You have been walking in stroms your entire life, Jafar. Magic, emotion, the events of your life, they had added to the tempest which has blown around you since your birth. These visions have been my attempt to show you that they are your strength, but you must control them. Or in time they will crush you.”

“And I suppose you think that you are the ideal entity to do just that?” Jafar remarked, sarcastically, “Let me spare you the time: I’m not going to be your instrument. Five years of my life were stolen from me, along with everything else that mattered to me the last time I trusted the words of someone like you. I’m not going to fall for the same trap again.” 

He knew that it was probably a bad idea to try and walk away from a being as powerful as this dragon. He expected Ir’deth to stop him by force, which would have only proved his point. Yet, Ir’deth didn’t do anything of the kind. Instead, he merely asked a question. 

“Where is your familiar, Storm Walker?” 

The unexpected question made Jafar freeze mid-stride. The tone of Ir’deth’s voice was absolutely certain, as though he were asking something so blindingly obvious, Jafar should have been able to give the question without any hesitation. “I don’t have a familiar.” he spat out, making no attempt to hide his bitter tone.

“Are you so sure of that?” Ir’deth asked, “Who told you that? Was it one of the Masters? Perhaps it’s time you learned the truth.”

Suddenly, the wind of the storm picked up, capturing him in a violent eddy that pushed him up and away from the eye of the storm. Right before the dream faded, there was a blindingly, white-hot flash of lightning that struck him squarely in the chest. His eyes snapped open, finding that the dream had been replaced by stark reality. 

He was in his room, with the first streaks of dawn showing through his window. He was gasping for breath and he could feel his heart racing. That exchange had been no dream, nor had that final bolt of lightning. He could still feel it crackling in his veins, only it seemed that the strike had left something else in it’s wake which she hadn’t been expecting. 

He remembered something, from before. Not just a fleeting impression that vanished as soon as he tried to reach for it, but a spell. It was a spell the Masters had insisted he had never learned. And a dragon had just broken through that storm of displaced memories without any effort. 

Jafar had no desire to become second best to another master. But, there could be no denying the fact that Ir’deth had been right. The storm had been a clear warning that his magic could become even more unmanageable if he didn’t find some way to control it. Relying only on himself could lead to disaster. 

Jafar had more than a few choices to make, and how he chose would determine a great deal of how the rest of his life would go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Jafar having some sort of guide at the beginning of his journeyu is something that I wanted to put in this story from the very beginning. It seems that one big factor of his problems in the 2019 version in his sense of supreme isolation. In this story, I wanted to give him a greater sense of connection to a few people or beings who might be able to help him along his path. 
> 
> Ir'deth might be one of the most important in that respect. And as you might have noticed, Iago will soon be making a comeback. 
> 
> Anywho, enough of my rambling. Hope you liked this chapter. Be sure to leave a comment. Stay creative, stay healthy.


	8. Find Familiar

Find Familiar:

The visitation of Ir'deth had left Jafar feeling shaken and uncertain. It was utterly preposterous; there was no reason why a dragon guardian of a recently awakened god would have had any interest in him. He was quite aware of how weak he had become. If he couldn’t find a way to harness the storm around him, it would never do him any good. Oh, of course he remembered the techniques the Conclave had taught him for the ten years he had been under their grip. He didn’t want to use them, however. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of using their teachings, even if from such a distance. 

The other restraint which kept him from considering the offer of Ir’Deth was a terror that he would become another pawn in someone’s game. He had sensed the overwhelming power that swirled around the dragon, to say nothing of the storm he had been able to muster and maintain within Jafar’s dreams for days and weeks. Such binding spells across so many layers of existence took skill of untold years to learn. He could easily ensnare Jafar to be his unquestioning servant again. 

Yet, as the days began to pass since Ir’deth had revealed himself and no more dreams came to him, the very power of the dragon began to whisper to a different part of Jafar’s desire. What could he learn from such an entity? What missing gaps in his knowledge could be filled even more completely than before? He was certainly safe in Agrabah from the threat of pursuit, but the issue of strengthening his magical abilities was proving to be frustrating. Despite the reservations which he felt, Jafar began to feel a certain interest in what he could learn. 

This desire seemed to be justified as the dreams he had were no longer disturbing images of his past, but something more promising. Pieces of a spell began to swirl within the vortex of the storm, a spell that stayed with him in his waking moments. A flash of lightning in one moment would reveal some sort of spell components needed to make it work, the echo of thunder reminded him of the words he needed to speak. 

The pieces began to come together, until one morning he woke up before the sun had started to rise, only to realize that he remembered this spell, had perhaps even attempted it once before, though he couldn’t remember if he had succeeded in summoning a familiar or not. 

He lay there in the predawn darkness for a long time, wrestling with the wisdom of even attempting it. He was a little irritated that Ir’deth was being so insistent on the issue of a familiar. What use was such a spell to him right now? Surely there was something more powerful that could help him survive in a foreign country where he had relatively few allies?

On the other hand, what could he possibly have to lose by this point? Perhaps actually pursuing the thirst for knowledge would help to relieve the shame and helpless rage which continued to stalk him ever since Tamara had restored his memories to him. 

Scowling, he threw off the covers and got to his feet. Most of the palace would still be asleep at this hour. He should be able to obtain the items he needed without attracting too much attention, as long as he avoided the gaze of the guards. 

It was actually surprising how easily his body slipped into the old movements of thievery: pausing before rounding a corner, while listening intently for any sound of footsteps, keeping to the shadows of hallways, almost instinctively avoiding the light of the torches. He found an odd degree of comfort in it. At least there was something he was still good at. 

In the next few hours, he scoured the palace to find the items he needed. The charcoal came from the furnaces under the palace which pumped the hot water for bathing and cooking. There was incense to be found from the small shrines which dotted the hallways. The herbs he found in the kitchens and infirmary. By the time the sun had started to rise above the horizon, he had made it back to his room, locking the door securely behind him. 

He dragged the brazier out from the foot of his bed, setting it up in the middle of the room. With trembling hands, he set the charcoal alight in the brazier, adding the incense to the flames as they started to grow higher. Soon, there was a thin haze in the air around the room.He found himself starting to tremble, both nervous and excited to be getting back in touch with magic once more. 

He began to recite the incantation which made up the first part of the spell. He was certain that he stumbled on the pronunciation and rhythm, but he must have done it somewhat correctly, as the charcoal fire began to change from golden yellow to smatterings of red, green, and blue, all blending together in a strange sort of harmony, that once again struck him as being uncannily familiar. 

Jafar took a deep breath. So far, things were going the way they were supposed to. The next part, however, would be the most difficult. The amount of incense had to be burned in exactly the right amounts, or it would ruin the outcome of the spell. If that happened, he would have to go through the entire process again, and that was something he wished to avoid. He reached for the herbs, spreading them into the flames, as he spoke the next part of the incantation. This time around, he felt his confidence starting to increase. 

The overpowering scent of the incense and herbs filled his senses and stinging his eyes. Through the haze and swirl of the flames within the brazier, he began to see brief flashes of something moving, and the sense of that he was treading on the verge of a foggy memory began to intensify. Was this truly the first time he had attempted this spell? The Masters had always been careful to keep the knowledge from him, telling him repeatedly that he shouldn’t be worrying with something so mundane. But, what harm could a familiar do, unless it would have revealed something that he wasn’t supposed to know. 

Either way, he was about to find. He uttered the final words of the spell, preparing himself for what was about to happen. Immediately, there were a series of loud popping sounds, accompanied by several bright flashes from the brazier. Jafar was forced to cover his face, shielding his eyes from the effects of the spell. However, he could feel the distinct, burning flash of his magic, flowing through and out of him into the brazier itself. 

A few more moments passed, until there was a bright flash of white light. From that light, Jafar saw the shadowy form become a definite mass of brightly colored feathers and beating wings, accompanied by a loud squawking sound. Out of the lingering smoke from the spell, a large parrot suddenly burst into view. Jafar took a step back, shocked that the spell had actually worked. However, the greater sense he felt was that of an overpowering and welcome connection he experienced when he saw the parrot.

The parrot whistled and flew around the room a few times, as though he were happy to be spreading his wings after too much time in a cage. Finally, it landed at the foot of the bed, turning to Jafar and uttering his first words, in a tone that was more than a little annoyed. “Five years, Master. Took you long enough.” 

The voice was loud and harsh, not exactly the biggest surprise considering that parrots themselves were hardly the most melodious of their flighted brethren. However, Jafar got the distinct impression he was being chastised for something. “What are you talking about? I just summoned you.”

The parrot shook its head, as though Jafar had just uttered a very stupid lie. “Five years. Never called. Where were you?”

Jafar looked at the parrot for a long time, struggling to remember something that hovered frustratingly at the very edge of his memory. There had been a boy once, he knew, a boy who had one day seen dozens of brightly colored birds for sale in the marketplace. Their bright plumage and feisty personalities had captivated him more than the docile songbirds so many others would have been drawn to. From many days of hanging around the merchants, he learned that they came from far away jungles, and were extremely intelligent, if somewhat belligerent and stubborn. They could even talk back to their masters. 

Such a bird had been far beyond his family’s meagre income, and stealing them would have been difficult. However, that same boy had eventually been able to learn a spell which allowed him to summon any creature he wanted to be his companion and aide, a familiar. When he had been able to actually learn it, the first creature that had come into his mind and into existence had been one of the very birds he had so admired from the rooftops. 

“Iago.” He breathed, the name he had given his familiar sliding off his lips for the first time in five years. It had been five years, hadn’t it? He and Iago had been constant companions for as long as he could remember. On the streets in his childhood, Iago had helped him to steal and get by with an extra set of eyes in the sky, or a well-placed distraction. During the long nights when his mother had been forced to ply her trade, Iago had kept him company as he slept on the roof, safe and out of sight. 

Then, that terrible night when he had killed a man and the Conclave had taken him in, along with the sister he could no longer remember. There, Iago had served much the same function as he had during his street rat days, and even if Jafar had often been driven to distraction by the familiar’s constant annoyance, he had been one of the true friends he could rely upon in the cutthroat atmosphere the Conclave encouraged. 

But, now those days were more a blur than a solid part of his memory. The only thing he now realized in the wake of this was that the Masters had made him forget even Iago’s existence. They had made it impossible to summon the one being that could have helped him until Tamara came along. The Conclave had literally left him with nothing. 

“Iago. After all this time, you still remember?”

Iago bobbed his head from side to side. “Never forget a master. Even when they forget.”

Jafar flinched momentarily, bristling at the reminder of the still raw wound. “I _didn’t_ forget, Iago. It was them, they made me forget. I never would have willingly.... I didn’t want to…”

It was the sight of Iago which finally broke his fragile control. In the past several weeks he had been struggling to keep his emotions in check whilst the fractured memories of his past fought for control of his mind. Iago pushed that control away, and he was struck by a tidal wave of overwhelming loss. The strength seemed to drain from him, and he collapsed to the floor of his room, sobbing uncontrollably. 

He had lost so much: his sister, his best friend, his future, everything had either been revealed as a lie or been stolen from him in the most violent way imaginable. He had been forced to forget all of it, recreated to be an unthinking puppet for the whims of the Chimera Conclave. His powers had been leashed and caged. And he had been too weak to even attempt to fight against it. Perhaps he was really no better than second best. 

He hadn’t wanted to face it, hadn’t wanted to feel the terrible pain that he knew would overpower him if he paused to truly consider the magnitude of his loss. 

Through the searing agony of his self-loathing and despair, he suddenly felt the feathered body of Iago pressing up against him, making the soothing whistles and coos that he had used to comfort him so many times throughout the years of his childhood. 

Jafar’s eyes hardened, and he felt a renewed sense of determination. He was still here. He could still remember. Iago was right here in front of him, the living proof that he could rise again from the place where the Conclave had sought to throw him. He was going to drag back every last shred of knowledge the Conclave had tried to steal from him, and more. Never again, he vowed silently, never again would he be second best, nothing but a lackey. He would be more powerful than anyone else around him, no matter how long it took, no matter who tried to stand in his way. 

From beyond his room, he heard a distant rumble of thunder. Looking out through his window, he realized that dawn had finally come, but there would be no sunrise. A storm was rolling in from the sea, and already he could make out distant flashes of lightning amidst the dull grey clouds, lightning that seemed to resemble two dragon-like eyes which he could almost swear were looking directly at him. The scent of rain carried on the wind blowing in from the sea came to him, and he heard the voice of Ir'deth, calling to him as if from a very far distance. “Are you ready?”

Jafar slowly got to his feet, wiping the remains of the tears from his face. Iago flapped up to his shoulder, with a triumphant squawk, as if sensing his master’s resolve. Jafar faced the eyes in the storm outside, and the storm within himself, willing himself to find the calm center where he would not be controlled, but would have all the power that storm gave him. “Teach me.”

* * *

Ir’deth actually resided on a tall, craggy island within the waters of the Vibrant Sea. The island was honeycombed with caves and passageways that filled with water depending on the tides. Jafar had no real idea where the island was in relation to Agrabah itself, as the dragon used some sort of teleportation magic to bring him there whenever they were training. However, the island was situated fairly close to the edge of the Vortex, as there always seemed to be a storm raging around some part of the island. 

The training itself started as no easy task. Jafar had known that even before Ir’deth had appeared to him in his dreams. However, he had trouble from almost the very beginning summoning the strength to cast spells which had come so easily to him only a few months before. The first weeks were nothing short of frustration and failure. For someone as driven as Jafar, the lack of progress was unacceptable. 

“I might have a solution.” said Ir’deth, one day after a particularly hard session wherein Jafar’s frustration was starting to get the better of his progress. “You need something physical to focus your energy.”

“Physical?” Jafar asked, panting heavily, the cold, wet rocks beneath him feeling a bit more slippery than usual. 

“Yes, otherwise you're forcing the storm’s energy through your own body. It’s exhausting you before you can ever get the chance to summon a spell. Having something else imbued with your magic could serve as an anchor point for you to advance.”

“I never needed something like that before.” Jafar pointed out, feeling reluctant to show any sign of weakness. 

“Your strength was never at its highest point before.” Ir’deth pointed out, “There are some lessons you need to learn about controlling your strength.”

Jafar growled and shook his head. He wanted to deny the truth of Ir’deth’s words. Accepting that he had even needed help in the first place had been difficult enough. Hearing that he needed a crutch was even more humiliating. “Not a crutch if you need it.” Iago suddenly said, who was perched on a nearby rock. 

He turned and glared at the familiar. “I don’t recall inviting you into the conversation.”

“Always hear your thoughts.” Iago pointed out. 

Jafar looked back at Ir’deth, “You had to help me remember Iago, didn’t you?”

“He’s right, isn’t he?” said Ir’deth, “Magic is hardly a democracy. Besides, as I believe you have thought yourself, what do you have to lose at this point?”

Jafar sighed heavily and got to his feet. “Fine, I’ll try constructing one, if only so that you two will give me some sense of peace. When it doesn’t work, you can’t blame me for not trying.”

Of course, it actually did work. Jafar honestly didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved when the rudimentary staff he started crafting actually stabilized his spell casting. Iago seemed rather smug, as though the whole thing had been his idea. Id’deth merely seemed to approve. 

“Impressive.” He said, as he examined the staff under construction, Jafar was certain that he could smell a great deal more than see. “You’ll find that dragon scale is much easier to cast through than most materials, and it will most likely last a great deal longer.”

Jafar raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at the golden head of the cobra he was working with. “You’re not offended that it doesn’t look anything like you? I would almost think you would insist upon it. I’ve heard how vain you dragons can be with your pupils.”

“It’s enough for my vanity to consider that I inspired it.” said Ir’deth, “You did decide to go with a cobra, after all. Besides, even with the Awakened state of my master, it might be best to not go around advertising any sort of connection to him too clearly.”

Jarfar looked up at him. “There is one thing I have been somewhat confused about. You claim to be one Ytion’s Guardians. What use does he have for you now that he is Awakened?”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to ask such a question in the past century. True enough, for me and my fellow Guardians, the task we had for millennia was ensuring that Ytion was protected, and that any gateways to his place of rest would be hidden from those who would seek to destroy him completely. However, some of us had other tasks. Gods may sleep, but the world moves on. Some of us needed to make sure that his name wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“What have you been doing, then? Your name is spoken with fear and loathing in the Conclave. The Masters there seemed to regard you as one of their worst enemies.”

Ir’deth smiled, an unsettling sight if one wasn’t used to it. “Really? I am quite glad that I have such a high report amongst my enemies. I can’t say that it’s not unwarranted. For the last five hundred years, I’ve been a guard against their influence growing any stronger throughout these lands. Agrabah, especially, has been an important place to protect. They are on the crossroads of trading routes. New ideas tend to take root and spread from there very quickly.”

“Five hundred years?” Jafar repeated, “That was when the Succession Wars were occurring.”

“And when the Conclave first rose in Shirabad. The unrest caused by the wars in Agrabah were not of the Djinn’s doing, for once. However, if it weren’t for me, they might have moved in to take over.” 

“Ancient history is all very fascinating, but that doesn’t really answer my main question. Why haven’t you tried to convert me?” 

Ir’deth seemed to raise an eyebrow. “I have some idea of your thoughts, Jafar. You don’t seem to have a sense of loyalty to any of the gods.”

“I have little use for them. ” said Jafar, “Yet, you are the guardian of a god. I would think you would have some personal stake in trying to get me to follow him.”

“Do you know anything about Ytion?” Ir’deth asked, “It’s easy to forget he’s the god of battle and strategy. Soldiers on both sides of a conflict will ask for his guidance, each believing that their cause is the more noble and deserving of winning. Yet, in nearly every war, there is a winner and a loser. Ytion can’t play favorites. And he’s pragmatic. I have been tasked with weakening the Conclave, ensuring their eventual destruction. You want to destroy the Conclave, as well. Our goals happen to intersect. That makes us allies. My master has followers. But he appreciates the fact that allies can sometimes be far more valuable.”

“So, is that what you want me to be? An ally?”

“As a matter of fact, that was what I was thinking, if you can stand being an ally to someone like a dragon. I can’t possibly think that will be useful in the future.”

For the first time in a long time, Jafar actually smiled. “Actually, there are a few very useful things I could think of. I suppose I’ll have to start thinking how I can help both of us.”

* * *

In the next few months, Jafar would begin to see this new arrangement with Ir’deth begin to bear fruit. He began to find his confidence once more when it came to the power of his words. He began to weave phrases of threat and persuasion in the ears of people throughout the palace, across every position. Iago proved his usefulness, becoming his eyes and ears across, gathering secrets and observing the power struggles that took place behind closed doors. 

When Iago was unable to get that information or when those words weren’t enough to move people to see his way of thinking, he was able to take his level of persuasion one step further. The staff he now carried with him wherever he went heightened his ability to get into people’s minds, until his voice was the only one they heard. 

Soon, he began to develop a reputation. He was no longer simply the anonymous foreigner who the Sultana had taken pity on. Those who had been so quick to dismiss him now began to fear and respect him, however grudgingly it might have been done. He knew there was still a long way to go before he could be truly secure, but for the first time, it seemed possible. 

He didn’t know if he would ever be able to call Agrabah home. He wasn’t even sure if he knew what that word meant. But he could say one thing for certain: he had found a place where he could belong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Iago has made his appearance, and you can be sure that he'll be the voice of chaos for many of Jarfar's more ordered thoughts. I always really liked the idea that Iago was a familiar. It seems to lend some credence to the fact that he does whatever Jafar tells him, but still seems to have some sass to him. 
> 
> For any seasoned Dungeons and Dragons player, the description of the spell for preparing Find Familiar is taken from the DnD Player's Handbook. 
> 
> Stay Safe and stay creative.


	9. The Web of Story

It was the Festival of Founding. All of Agrabah was abuzz with excitement for the highest holiday of the year, a week-long celebration of that day nearly 1,000 years before when settlers and traders had arrived on the shores of the Vibrant Seas and established the great city which so many called home. 

The Festival was marked by fireworks, performances by the Inspirers of Ehlir and all culminating in a grand parade that wound its way through the streets. It was one of Jasmine’s favorite holidays, made even better by the fact that she had received a special gift of a tiger cub from Calaf, the Minister of overseas shipping and trade on the Council (he was also the hapless husband of Zaresh, who dominated her family as tightly as she did the temple. Nonetheless, Calaf was a good man, and Samira liked him more than she probably should have). 

The first night of the Festival traditionally saw a performance of the epic tale of how the two Moon Protectors, the twins Valara and Shaddall, had ascended to the state of godhood. This event that had happened ten thousand years before, and it was held by many scholars and religious authorities to be the defining event which had brought the last great war between the djinn and the gods to a definitive conclusion. 

The evening of the performance came, and the great hall of the palace filled with excited chatter. Jasmine was running through the crowd after Rajah, Samira running behind them to make sure they didn’t get into trouble. Unfortunately, trouble always had a way of finding Jasmine, regardless of who was minding her.

When Rajah happened to dart in between two columns on the edge of the great hall, the younger princess ran after him, and almost ran into the towering figure of Jafar. She gasped and back-pedaled fiercely into Samira who was barely able to catch herself and her sister before they both toppled onto the floor. 

“Do watch where you’re going, princess.” said Jafar, with no small amount of impatience. “If you can’t control that striped cat of yours’, Perhaps you shouldn’t be so liberal in letting him out and about.”

“S-sorry, Jafar.” stammered Jasmine, as Rajah quickly padded to her side, glaring balefully at Jafar, and the parrot seated on his shoulder. “Rajah’s not a danger to anyone. He listens to everything I say."

“For now.” squawked Iago, who returned Rajah’s disdain, “Won’t be small forever.”

Samira glanced at Iago. The parrot was new, and he was something she hadn’t yet been able to figure out. Jafar had simply appeared with the bird sitting on his shoulder one day, and had been reticent about where it had come from. However, Iago certainly wasn’t like other birds. Though there were similarities, Samira couldn’t couldn’t communicate with him in quite the same way as she could with creatures like Rajah. 

Iago seemed a strange mix of real feather and flesh, with strains of magic that were alien to her. He and Jafar seemed to be closely connected, Iago often echoing or agreeing to Jafar’s sentiments, if not giving voice to his actual opinion on certain matters. 

“Iago may have a point, Princess. Perhaps you should attempt to train him a little better before he becomes big enough to eat someone.”

Jasmine’s eyes flashed, as though Jafar had just a personal insult against her. “I’ll consider that when you start training that bird of yours’ to mind it’s own business. Nobody cares what he thinks.”

Iago cawed harshly, while Rajah growled and stepped forward menacingly. Samira, sensing that fur and feathers could be about to fly, immediately stepped between two of that and held out both hands in a placating manner. 

“Jasmine, I’m sure that Jafar meant no disrespect. He’s merely seeing to the safety of those around him.” She looked over at Jafar. “Don’t worry about that, Jafar. Jasmine is training Rajah quite well. Besides, I'm sure that I’ll be able to help if anything should come up. I do have a way with animals, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The statements to both of them were meant to be warnings to not push the matter, and despite their mutual dislike, they both got the message. Jafar drew back a few steps, a thin, sarcastic smile on his face, the snake headed staff in his hand glinting with an elegant menace. 

The staff was also a new addition to his ensemble. The staff was burnished gold, it’s top fashioned into a hooded cobra of green and gold, with red rubies for eyes. That scarlet gaze was unsettling, not helped by the fact that she had heard rumors of people being unable to tear their eyes away from Jafar when he turned the staff in their direction. Samira had reason to believe that those rumors had more than a little truth to them. 

The staff and Iago seemed to have boosted Jafar’s confidence. He held himself differently, straighter and more assured, as though he were starting to believe nothing could touch him. It was a decided difference from his first appearances, and the open arrogance he now showed certainly hadn’t endeared him at all to Jasmine, who had only come to regard him with ever deepening dislike, which was entirely returned. 

Try as she might, however, Samira found herself unable to share the same opinion. Jafar was one of the only Magic Born she had ever met in her relatively limited experience, and he didn’t allow himself to be bound by the restrictions that she constantly struggled with. She didn’t deny that he was arrogant and annoying, but she also found herself envying him. If only she could care so little what others thought of her. It would make life infinitely more simple. 

As for Jafar and Jasmine, they seemed to realize that further arguing would only make them both look foolish. Of course, an apology from either was entirely out of the question. The most Jafar allowed for his dignity was a stiff smile and a short bow to Samira. “Very well, my lady. I believe I can trust your judgement as the elder. I merely hope that the younger princess will heed your words before an accident occurs that could have easily been prevented.” With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Jasmine made a sound of impatience, her hands balling into fists. “Why couldn’t mother have brought back someone who was nice?” She asked, angrily. Rajah growled in agreement, twinning himself around Jasmine’s legs as he did so. 

“Don’t worry about him, Jasmine. It’s not like he’ll ever be in a position to do anything other than annoy you.”

Jasmine huffed and the two of them started to make their way back to the main seats of the royal family. The performance was about to begin, and neither of them wanted to be late. “Can you imagine me not being able to control Rajah, especially with you here. Everyone knows you’re better with animals than almost anyone. Hakim even uses you to help with training the horses and camels.”

Samira smiled. “Well, then, you’ll simply have to train Rajah so well that Jafar’s accusations will be utterly groundless. That will be the best way to get revenge on him, won’t it?”

Jasmine smirked and said, “I like that idea.”

The sisters arrived at their seats, meeting their parents. The lights started to dim, signaling the beginning of the performance. A murmur of excitement swept through the crowd, as late comers rushed to their seats, not wanting to miss a moment. 

And, it would be during this performance, indeed this entire Festival would be what changed the trajectory of Samira’s entire life. 

* * *

The Ascension of the Twins was a popular legend in Agrabah. From the youngest child of humble origin to the oldest sage cleric within the Temple Promenade, every person seemed to know the basic legend, and of course, any number of its many variations. 

The official doctrine, and thus what the present performance was based on, went something like this: millennia ago, in the midst of the wars between the djinn and the gods and their mortal followers, there were two twins who tried to avoid getting involved. What their names might have been when they were human had been lost to history, but they were now known as Valara and Shaddall. 

They were as different as two siblings could be. Valara was happy and joyful, striving to give even her enemies a chance to repent. But when crossed, she was deadly and skilled. Shaddall was dark and shadowy. He liked to think of himself as pragmatic, someone who knew that sometimes one had to cross seemingly ethical boundaries in order to achieve a greater good. 

The two may not have seen eye to eye on everything, but they still loved each other deeply. And the one thing which they both had in common was their love of night. They worked best under the cover of the stars, they loved to dance and talk under the two moons which shone down on them from above. Of course, the two moons had existed long before they ascended. Yet, at this point, the twins felt a sense of connection to the dance of the two great celestial bodies. 

All this was established in the first few scenes of the play, wherein the players represented the twins as two mercenaries who were only trying to get by, avoiding the wider conflict as much as they could. Samira had seen this story every year, heard it numerous times over the course of her life, but she never grew tired of it. The intertwining of history and legend had become her passion. 

But, ever since she had found that book in the library of Ehlir, she had started to ask questions. As far as she could determine, the book itself appeared to have been copied from an old manuscript of myths and legends from before the Wars of Succession. The story of Valara and Shaddall had been one of the stories, but she had noticed that the narrative differed from the one she knew in subtle ways. 

One of the defining moments in the story and the performance, was the encounter that would set the twins on an entirely different course. They happened to come across a woman being attacked by monstrous beasts, servants of the djinn. The two of them had come to her aid and managed to drive off the creatures before they could kill her. This woman had never given her name, but history would come to remember her as the Enchantress, possessing strange and powerful magic. The twins had taken to the woman as another member of their family. For Shaddall, however, it had gone a step further. 

It had always struck her as strange that Shaddall should have chosen to fall in love with a woman so powerful in magic as the Enchantress was said to be in all the stories. If there was anything which Zaresh seemed to bring up when she was within hearing distance of Samira, it was that Shaddall had some sort of personal vendetta against Magic Born, yet Shaddall had been so devastated by the death of his own magical lover that it had motivated his Ascension. 

All the stories held the Enchantress to be a mortal woman. However, this was where the text she had been deciphering told a different story. Those words said that this woman had been divine in nature, her name long since forgotten, save for the image of the Faceless Weaver she had seen in the book.

The performance went on, and Samira continued to question the narrative that had once been so familiar. As she did so, she began to feel a disconnect between the reality she was witnessing and the questions of her own mind. The performers and audience seemed to become distorted, slowing down to a crawl. Their voices sounded distant and echoing, though they were only a few feet from her.

However, even as the sounds and movements were altering and reduced, as though in direct contrast, the colors in the room began to grow brighter. It was strange and not a little unsettling, as Samira could plainly see from looking around her that she was the only one experiencing this phenomenon. She had no idea what was going on, or what she was supposed to be doing. 

Then, she began to see the phoenix. Emerging from the stone or the torches, or even out of thin air, their flaming feathers flashing like living sapphire, emeralds and onyx. They flew around the room, calling out to each other. Samira had never seen them so dazzling in their appearance, nor had she ever seen so many at one time. She sensed that something was different, something crackling along the threads of her magic with an intensity that she could only grasp at half the time. Now, it seemed so close and real that anything seemed possible. 

No sooner had she realized this, when she heard the voice emerging from the direction of the stage. Unlike the slow reverberations of the performers, this voice was speaking at a more normal pace, but that was all which could be said to be normal about it. 

“Samira.” 

The voice was otherworldly, feminine and rich. It seemed to echo in repeated whispers, bounding from the stone, burning in the fire of the torches, and swirling in the scented air around her. It throbbed in her very bones. 

“Samira.” 

The voice came again, almost more insistent in the way she spoke the rhythm of her name, as if desperate for her to respond in some way. A few more phoenixes swooped down in front of her, the music of their natural voices seeming to tell her that she needed to listen and respond. Some of the birds had perched in various places around the great hall, and she could sense from them a constant vigilance, scanning for any threat or disturbance. She didn’t know what they were guarding against, but threat alone was enough. 

Though this whole thing, the actress portraying the Enchantress had continued her part, albeit much slower. Yet, around her something began to swirl in the background. Dozens of flaming threads formed a web, creating an image of a female figure, clad in a garment of shimmering, ever-changing thread. Her hair was long, and seemed to be on fire. It was hard to see where one thread began or connected to the others. The entire form was shifting, ever changing. Yet, there was no chaos or difficulty in calling upon this power. And Samira saw a hint, at last, of what she could become. 

“I’ve seen you before.” said Samira, “How much of this is even true?”

The voice echoed again in the room. “It is real and false. True in spirit, flawed in practice. It’s a tapestry without all the threads present. You ask questions that no one has thought to ask in many years. That’s why I’m here.”

“This magic, it’s coming from you, isn’t it?” Samira asked, “It’s so much like mine, but I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t tell where the threads are going, or even where they’re ending.” 

“That’s because it comes from everywhere. I am the pursuit of hunter and prey. I am what causes the earth to yield and die. I am the turning of the seasons throughout the year. I am the heart of nature itself.”

She reached out a hand to Samira, as though inviting her into a place beyond anything she had ever known. “You have always had my magic, Samira. Now, I believe you’re ready to hear my story. Will you let me show you what really happened all those years ago?”

Samira wasn’t used to hearing tones of such kindness and understanding from anyone. And to hear a voice from the past so clearly was something she couldn’t very well let herself resist. “What do you have to say? What really happened? Why are there no records of your existence anywhere?”

Instead of reacting with impatience, she merely laughed. “Always so eager. I have always loved that about you. You understand something that very few people do: the past is written in stone. It can’t change, which is why it can influence the present and cause the future to change. This is my story.”

The glowing threads which had been wrapping around the great hall started to form images and patterns, illuminating the story the goddess was telling. “This story is accurate on many points. The djinn held these vast empires, enslaving the minds and bodies of every living creature they came across. The followers of the gods endowed their followers with magic of their own, but for so many mortals within the grip of the djinn’s lands, they had no way to defend themselves.

“I wouldn’t stand for it. I looked upon the strength of nature and drew a different kind of magic from what I observed. And from that knowledge, I gave the mortals a greater understanding of the powers they were capable of wielding. What had once been the privileged knowledge of only the djinn and their followers, was now common knowledge to everyone.”

Samira watched the unfolding story before her, the tapestry seeming to mirror the final act of the play, when the Enchantress was supposedly cut down by the djinn, precipitating the event that would cause the Ascension of the twins. “You gave magic to ordinary people.” She said, a few of the pieces beginning to fall into place. “Magic Born played a definitive role defeating the djinn in the last great wars. If you were the one who first showed others how to use it, no wonder they wanted to destroy you.”

“Yes, the djinn are creatures of greed and chaos. They feed on the pain and malice which they instill in others. I dared to give the ones they abused a fighting chance. As a result, I became their most hated enemy. They began a systematic slaughter of my followers, destroying and desecrating my temples whenever they had the chance. The djinn sought to erase my influence in any way they could.”

Strangely, now the two different stories began to mirror each other closely. The death of the Enchantress happened in much the same way as the goddess she was describing. Ten thousand years before, the djinn had steadily been driven back in the last great battle, the twins fighting alongside with their deity companion, and the followers that joined them throughout the years. However, the djinn had seen an opportunity and they had taken it without hesitation. They had managed to get the Enchantress, and the goddess had been shattered, her very essence pulled apart and scattered across the physical plain. 

When that had happened, there had been a moment when those djinn had been able to harness enough power to alter the very fabric of reality that whirled around the Enchantress. They had erased nearly every reference to her from histories and legend. Her remaining temples had been reduced to rubble and the majority of her followers killed on the battlefield. 

As the actress playing the Enchantress fell to the stage in an imitation of death, the story woven by the mysterious presence seemed to envelope above her, creating images of the multiple phoenix who had been appearing to her, bursting from the ashes of her dying breath. They were the guardians who had managed to preserve what was left of her influence. But, for the most part, all that was left of her was a twisted legend, if anyone thought of her at all. 

Samira watched with fascination, unable to tear her eyes away from what she was seeing. For some reason, she felt a connection with this supernatural messenger. There was someone out there who was like her. For the last few minutes, she hadn’t felt quite so alone. That was enough.

“What’s your name?”

“I daren't say my name. Even now, I am at risk. The war isn’t over, Samira. It merely went into the shadows, and the djinn have never stopped hunting me.”

“You’re still in danger, after all this time?”

“The djinn live as long as the gods, and they are not apt to forget or forgive. Following me is fraught with danger, Samira. Already, many have seen what you could become, and they will do everything they can to stop you from reaching your full potential.”

Images of Zaresh and everyone who thought like her in Agrabah flashed through Samira’s mind. A cold chill ran down her spine, as she realized that maybe the warning was intended for the threats she wasn’t even aware of yet. “Can you help me?” She asked. 

“Yes, but it will not be easy. You still have much work to do, and it’s time you had direction. Watch for those who walk in the footsteps of the beasts, they will be able to help you. But, you also need a friend. Perhaps you will find them in your hour of greatest need.”

Samira cast another glance at the stage, watching the performance unfold. It was depicting the final battle of the twins and their allies against the last stronghold of the djinn. Whether it was through their sheer determination, or maybe a ritual they had learned, the various stories themselves were uncertain. However, they all agreed in the end that Valara and Shaddall ascended to the level of godhood and overthrew the powerful djinn, helping to usher in a new era of peace to the mortal world. 

Samira looked at this performance, and then over to the form of the Hidden Weaver, the closest thing to an identity she could give to her. She sensed a great sadness and pain emanating from her, the sense of being utterly alone and for far too long. “I don’t know if I understand all of what you just told me. I’m not even sure what it is you want me to do. But, I want to help you, if you’ll help me figure out just what that is.”

There was a sudden gust of strong wind, and a cloud of sand she hadn’t been aware of flew into her eyes. The gritty pieces of earth stung sharply, forcing Samira to close them for just a moment. And in that moment, she heard the voice one last time, distant and faint, as though the deity were shouting at her from a long distance away, “Remember my word, little weaver. Choose wisely as you go forward. A great deal depends on it.”

Samira opened her eyes, a dozen more questions leaping into her mind at this last statement. But she was stunned to see that the world around her had suddenly gone back to the way it was supposed to be. The performance had come to a close, with the Inspirers coming onto the stage to take their bows. The Enchantress was now simply an actress once again, smiling and accepting the applause for a moving performance. The sounds and movements of the crowd had returned to normal, cheering and applauding. What was even stranger, at least to Samira, was that no one around her seemed to have any idea that the room had been visited by an otherworldly creature. 

Blindly, more out of habit than actual thought, Samira found herself standing and applauding along with the rest of the crowd, including her family. However, she couldn’t forget that voice, the story she had seen simultaneously occurring alongside the one she knew so well. If what she had just seen was true, the implications were utterly staggering. And yet, she was certain that not a single soul would believe her if she told them about it.

It would take time for her to fully process everything. She honestly wasn’t sure if any of it had actually happened. Yet, she felt one thing which made her think that this wasn’t a delusion: she felt as though she finally had hope. The voice and appearance of the unknown goddess seemed to have left her with a purpose. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but even the promise of looking for one was something she had never had before. Somehow, she sensed that there would be no going back from this encounter. Tonight, her journey was finally beginning. 

As for Shaddall and Valara’s stories, how they ended is well known. The twins now dance across the skies together, never to be separated. Valara took the bright, white moon, the protector of explorers and a voice that reminds others of the power of mercy and compassion.

However, Shaddall, his heart forever pierced by the loss of his love, would find refuge where he always had, in the shadows. From the violet moon which would become his symbol, he took on the task of safe-guarding the domain of death and those who must walk the fine line of morality in order to survive. 

It’s always said that he is looking for his lost love amongst the souls he shepherds, though many of the histories say that his search for the mortal Enchantress will always be in vain. On the other hand, for those few who remember the Hidden Weaver, they say that, like the phoenix, she will rise again from the ashes, and they will be reunited again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting the first chapter out for this new fan fiction. For anyone who has read my one-shot, Perchance to Dream, this story will take place in the same universe. I mentioned that I had a bigger project in mind, and I am finally getting around to starting it This chapter was obviously just setting the scene, but the majority of the story will take place before the events of the movie. I hope that you all enjoy it. 
> 
> Next chapter: During the celebration of a Harvest Festival many years ago, Samira is given yet another cruel reminder that her very existence is anathema to many people in the palace. Only her mother truly understands that her daughter’s magic is a gift, and she will one day become more powerful than anyone could have guessed.


End file.
